Money and Martyrdom
The next morning Yamato woke up later than expected. He'd hoped that the phone would ring in the middle of the night and Taichi would be on the other end, begging for his forgiveness. He'd wished even more that Taichi would apologise in person and come banging on the door bent down on one knee, but he knew that he would be expecting the impossible if he held to that hope. It was his alarm clock that jolted him awake, announcing that it was time to get up and go to work again. Like clockwork he went through the routine of getting up, preparing breakfast, and then throwing it away moments later.
"Oh, God."
He griped and held to his stomach in agony. The thin, empty acid it contained was raging and swirling like a washing machine on a heavy cycle. He could feel himself wasting away, and it scared him. If this carried on any longer then he wouldn't be able to work. He wouldn't be able to leave his bed even. The thought of becoming a nuisance or helpless forcibly quelled the sickness, trying to put a stop to it before it fed the fears. Instead the pain of hunger took its place, like claws digging away at his stomach from the inside. He could even hear the roars of the beast itself.
Straightening his stance, he promised himself that he would not be late for work again. His students needed a healthy teacher and his father would need a healthy amount of money when he next came home. With a stiff jaw he reached up to the cabinet and pulled out a few painkillers, not caring that he poured out about five chalky white pills. He didn't care about what they'd do to him so long as they got rid of the niggling pain in his body. All of them were placed on the back of his tongue together as he poured himself a glass of water to wash them down with. He didn't bother to break them down before he gulped down the water, feeling the thick lumps stick in the top of his throat. Even after he'd finished his drink he kept recreating a swallowing motion so to help them down his oesophagus.
Putting on his work clothes he tried to forget about Taichi. He knew that despite his threat that Taichi would have gone off to drown himself in synthetic pleasures. The first few times it had happened he would be sick with worry, hoping that he would find his way home, that he wouldn't be left alone, that he wouldn't do something stupid and get himself killed. But now, he felt nothing but annoyance. That feeling is what held the frown to his face as he left for work.
"Sensei, my fingers can't stretch far enough for those chords, can't I just play a different piece?"
The small girl whined and swung her legs on the stool in front of the sleek school piano, her patent plastic shoes kicking the wooden base. Sitting next to her Yamato sighed and turned back the page of the old music book resting on the stand.
"Well, if you're desperate to give up on this one then I suppose you could play an easier one. But in order to get a top grade the examiner wants to see you play at your highest ability, and this piece is easy for you, and you know it. It just takes practice."
"My exam's in two weeks. There's not enough time to practise."
"But you thought that you could easily learn a whole different piece in that time?"
She pouted and flicked back her hair while staring at the strings of notes on the page in front of her.
"No. I suppose not."
She mumbled enough for her tutor to hear. Nodding he pointed to the page.
"A few hours of practice a day isn't going to kill you. Now, try again from bar 49. Take it slow."
With petite hands she began again, delicately pressing on the keys as she glared at the page with concentration. Yamato smiled and watched as her slender fingers moved with the music and he tapped the beat with his finger on the wood of the piano. She was doing well, just as smooth as usual if not a bit harsh. She was still too small to reach the pedals. But then when reaching the last few bars harsh mistakes began to ring with sour notes. She threw up her hands with a grunt.
"Ah Hell! - Oh, I'm sorry Ishida Sensei, I didn't mean to curse. I never use bad language like that normally, it's just-"
He chuckled and held up his hand.
"I know, it's okay. You're just lucky that I'm more lenient than Tanaka Sensei. Just, don't make a habit of it, okay?"
"Yes, Ishida Sensei."
"Good. Now, I'm sorry for holding you later than usual, but you're free to go now. I'll see you next week for your last lesson."
He slowly rose from his seat to the desk while she packed away her books in a rush to leave.
"Are you going to keep teaching me next year too, Ishida Sensei?"
She asked with complete innocence as she swung her bag over her shoulder, almost knocking down a row of music stands as she did so. Yamato sighed at her question, not knowing what he was expecting of the future any more. He worked at the school more for the enjoyment of it rather than the salary. But now that his financial situation was deteriorating it came to mind that he might have to leave in order to get another job, or another few. He sighed and leant back in his chair as he looked to her.
"I don't know. It depends if the school still want to keep me."
"I'm sure they would. And if not, then we'll all protest to get you back."
With a glaring blush she nodded with complete confidence which compelled Yamato to laugh at her childish innocence.
"That's very sweet. Now hurry up and get home. Your mum's probably waiting."
"Thank you, Ishida Sensei. I'll see you next week."
"You too. Keep practising."
She didn't bother to close the door as she skipped out. With the summer fast approaching his students seemed to be overly excited and more energetic than usual. It was refreshing to witness youth at its prime while others were all so worn and tired, himself included. He felt too lazy to even stand up and close the door though it was only a foot away. Sinking into his chair he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The sheets of music on his desk began to blur as his sight wavered and he felt himself falling asleep. It had been like this all day. While one student was performing a particularly long piece he'd even felt himself begin to nod off.
Wanting to get home as soon as possible he swiped all of the papers into a crumpled handful and shoved them into his bag, thinking that he would be able to sort them later after a nice long rest in his bed. Even though he felt too tired to even move he still forced himself to stand and pushed off from his chair with such a force as to propel him forward. His shaking legs didn't last well underneath his weight and without realising it he toppled sideways into the piano, his hand slamming onto the keys and a clash of flat notes resounded in the small practice room. But from the small effect of the mismatching chord Yamato's attention was brought to the large instrument. It had been a long time since he'd played for enjoyment instead of work. Most of his instruments at home were left in a cupboard to collect dust, waiting to be sold when his situation got bad enough. His mind had gone blank as he brushed his fingers over the ivory keys.
He wanted to play.
He could hear the music in his mind and his fingers were already beginning to map out and search for the chords and melodies. Feeling the cool keys beneath his touch he pressed a harmonising chord and heard the familiar music fill the small room.
Sitting on the stool he reached into his bag and simply pulled out the first booklet of paper that he felt and placed the sheet music atop the stand. He scanned the dulled yellow page of the dog eared booklet and smiled.
Chopin's Nocturne.
He'd first learnt it years ago. He would sit in the music room for hours after school trying to perfect it, playing until his fingers were numb and it felt as though they were detached from him and he was simply an onlooker. They would dance across the plane of the piano keys as though they were a part of the music itself. He'd never performed it to anyone though. He didn't particularly want anyone to hear it either. He put his soul into that piece of music whenever he played and would feel vulnerable bearing it to anyone else. The expressions he would make when sated in the way that he was when he played was something very personal.
Slowly he poised his fingers over the keys, like dancers took the stance to begin a waltz. With flowing movements he pressed onto the first few chords, swaying his whole body into the piano. He didn't even need to look at the music and instead closed his eyes. He had every note, every crescendo and every rest written on the inside of his eyelids. He could see it all as though it were projected off of the page. He would never simply push down a key as he played. He would move his whole body to accommodate the music, swaying and lifting each hand with such grace as it brushed the pure ivory like a lover's caress. He didn't so much command the piano as he did to coax it to create such music.
He couldn't fathom why had he waited so long to be reunited with his music. Had it always felt so amazing to play? He couldn't recall. All he knew was that it felt so natural.
The song was slightly melancholy, but so very beautiful and romantic. He could picture a moonlit balcony with two lovers perched together in the front of his mind. Whether they were himself and Taichi he wasn't certain. All he knew was that these beings he'd created were flawless, sharing a kind of romantic love that only the music was close to comparing to. No human emotion could reach the perfection of these two figments of his imagination. And with the same sort of longing melody that the music created he felt his own desire to feel such love. Unreachable as it was.
As the piece drew to a close and the music became softer and softer he felt his tension and tiredness fade with the notes.
"Now, that is something that you can't teach."
The voice startled Yamato and he felt himself trip despite sitting down. He used the piano to stable him and turned to the door where Tanaka Sensei stood with a quiet smile. The lines of experience curved on his face with the gentle upturn of his lips.
"I haven't heard you play since you applied for the job."
He laughed and sat down at Yamato's desk. Yamato himself had a slight flush from embarrassment after playing with such whole devotion, oblivious that he was being watched.
"Ah, well I haven't played much apart from showing the students."
He laughed and rubbed his finger against a particular key, keeping his eyes low to his superior.
"Perhaps you should start performing. It would help to reintroduce you to your instrument."
With a bright blush on his face Yamato shook his head, thinking about how embarrassing it was to reveal his talents to one person let alone an audience.
"N-No, I don't do well in front of crowds. My music is a bit too personal."
"Just because it's personal, that doesn't mean you can't share it. If anything that would only add to the intensity of the performance, just like what you showed me now."
Yamato stayed silent, listening to the wheezing breaths of the old teacher sitting across from him. He could never imagine himself on stage, soaking up glory and flashing smiles as he performed a cheesy piano piece in a tux. It just didn't suit him. He could imagine it even now, ending his performance with jazz hands while people in the front row swore and threw broken bottles at him. Then after that scarring image marred his brain he realised that the other teacher was still talking.
"-nothing like it, I swear. With a heartfelt performance like that it's amazing to hear the audience cheer at the end, to see their pleased faces. It feels almost like some sort of acceptance. For the person you are behind the instrument."
"But where would I even start? I don't have the kind of money to join an orchestra or rent out a stage."
With a warm smile Tanaka Sensei pressed his hands into his knees to help him stand up on his old creaky legs.
"Start small. You could play in the school concert or an open performance night at a club. I promise you that soon enough you'd have fans willing to pay to see you, maybe even donate to help yo get a proper career in the music business. At least it'd be better than playing 'Oh Susanna' with ten year olds for the rest of your life."
"Don't you like teaching Tanaka Sensei?"
"Of course I do. My life revolves around these kids. But if I had the youth and passion that you had then I would be putting it towards much greater things."
The old man straightened his glasses on the dented bridge of his nose and patted Yamato's tensed shoulder as he made his way to the door.
"At least think about it. You've already got one big fan right here."
He chuckled and pointed a thumb at his chest before leaving to his own office, while a sitting Yamato held his mouth agape in confusion, staring at the open door thinking that any second the man would walk back in and say 'just kidding'.
Yamato practically blew into the apartment with the breeze. He was so relaxed that his body felt like water. He dropped his bag by the door and his shoes fell off of his feet as he stepped into the home. The music was still in his head and his hands at his side were still unconsciously playing the piece. Before he decided to rest on the sofa he looked at the phone for some reason. He didn't know why, but he felt compelled to check the answering machine, even though he couldn't for the life of him remember who he was expecting a call from.
There weren't any messages.
It was a regular occurrence, but for some reason it bothered him. Someone was supposed to call. He just couldn't think who it was.
It didn't matter though. Nothing mattered at this moment while he was so blissfully calm. Music surely was his own personal cure for whatever it was that had troubled him. Not that he even remembered what it was.
Hearing a surprisingly loud howl from his stomach he felt his whole body tremble from the movement of his stomach. He felt so hungry. How could he have let it get out of hand so easily? Surely he should have realised that he was lacking food much sooner. It wasn't as though he didn't have enough to buy a simple sandwich.
His mind blank and with light feet he floated towards the kitchen to make some sort of meal from what he could find. He rummaged through the cupboards and hummed a medley of different tunes that were going through his head. There were so many songs that he'd started to remember and so many songs that he hadn't heard in years. How long had it been since he turned on the radio? He didn't have a clue what kind of music people had been listening to recently. Were his favourite bands still writing music together? Perhaps he could use some of the new music to encourage his students. If he learned a few modern songs on piano then surely they'd be inspired to practice more.
With a swipe of his hand he turned to where the radio would be plugged in to slam on the power button. When his hand went supposedly sailing through the radio and onto the table he looked to the plug socket to see that there was no radio there. With a gentle slap to his forehead the smile on his face fell and so did his hand that was still poking through the cupboard.
Ah, that's right. The radio had been sold.
With this rediscovered news the rest of his mind began to shake out the notes that he'd been humming and concentrate.
The radio was gone because he needed money to buy food.
He couldn't buy food because he'd lent his money to his father and Taichi.
He'd lent his money to Taichi so that he cold go out and drink.
He was expecting a call from Taichi after he'd walked out.
It was all coming back, and the grumbling of his stomach became quieter and quieter as he felt his appetite abandon him. The fluttering butterflies in his stomach were enough to stop him from craving food. Taichi hadn't called him. No matter how badly they usually fought Taichi would always trying and make it up to Yamato, or at the very least have the courtesy to contact him and tell him that he wasn't dead or in jail.
Feeling his worry grow Yamato looked back at the answering machine to confirm that a digital red symbol of zero was displayed, meaning that there had been no messages left for him. Taichi was either in a comatose state somewhere in Odaiba, or he just couldn't care enough to phone him and tell him that he was alright. Either way he was pissed off. He wanted to go back to that oblivious calm. He wanted to forget it all again until the solution showed itself to him. What he wanted most was to hear his precious music again.
There was no radio to turn on and relax too. There was no piano in the tiny apartment to play.
The only thing he remembered having was the dusty guitar that sat in the cupboard of his room. He hadn't had to part with it just yet.
Jogging into the room he skipped over the clothes and books that were strewn around his room to reach his cupboard. When he lost his balance he grabbed the handle in order to pull the door open as he stumbled back. The whole thing was a mess. Nothing but a built up pile of winter coats and old jeans that he had yet to organise. But at the very back, leant against the wall, was that old thick, black, leather case that held his trophy. The light from his room ricocheted off the sleek leather casing, giving it an almost ethereal glow that Yamato would gladly worship. With a diligent hand he reached for it and carefully placed it on his bed, tapping and brushing off the excess dust that fell from it. He sat cross legged on the bed beside it and unclipped the clasp to open it, reminiscing as he felt the cold metal.
When the lid was peeled back he laughed at the sight of all of his old trinkets that he had glued to the red linen inside of his case. There were a few band stickers and torn gig tickets that he'd collected a few years back, along with the most personal photographs that he had. There were a few of Takeru when he was much younger, clinging to his sacred older brother's shirt, giving a big cheesy grin to the camera as he was knee deep in mud, or playing around in the Christmas wrapping paper on their last Christmas as a proper family. There were a few of him and his gang of friends in high school in their special meeting place by the beach where they would drink themselves silly.
Then there was the small picture in the corner. The one with fingerprints all over it and the corners had been torn off. It was the only one that he had of him and Taichi together. They were on Sora's sofa, both with tired faces that told of a wild night before hand, with Taichi's arms wrapped around Yamato with his face tucked into his neck as they both laughed. Yamato stroked the inked faces with his thumb as he displayed a nostalgic smile.
With that one picture as his muse he reached for the acoustic guitar delicately, scared that it might break after all this time. Just from the look of it he could tell that the old girl was worn out and aged. The strings had thinned after vigorous playing and tuning. The fretboard still had some of those old chips in the edges that told of all the times he'd roughed up the poor thing. But, if anything touched him the most, it was the way she fit perfectly on his knee like always, as though he hadn't grown at all since the last time he'd held her. His smile brightened.
Why was he angry again?
It didn't matter.
He slid his fingers into a familiar chord and strummed, a little disturbed that the sound was so out of tune. Just like he used to do, he reached into the small pocket in the guitar case for his harmonica. He always used one instrument in order to tune the other.
It didn't take long to set the strings right, and she sounded just like she always used to; felt like she always used to. He started off by playing something easy that he remembered to get back into the swing of playing. It was just the simple chord sequence of a popular song he used to listen to. It was such a long time ago that the song was probably considered as 'lame' now. Not new enough to be cool, but not old enough to be vintage. Throughout the song he had fun with his music, improvising solos, changing the key, messing with the tension and volume. He felt like a closeted rock star once more. With a chuckle he finished the song and fell back onto the bed, taking his guitar with him and keeping his fingers in the place of the last chord. He would do this every day if he could. The thought was so pleasing to him that he couldn't help but think back to Tanaka Sensei's words.
"If I had the youth and passion that you had then I would be putting it towards much greater things."
Sitting up Yamato's expression came slightly serious. It was laughable to even think about considering such a far fetched proposal. The music business was tough. Only someone considered a musical genius could even get close to starting a career in that department, and even then using music for money was ow more dependant on looks and style rather than soul or substance. He'd get nowhere. But, on the other hand, he agreed completely with Tanaka Sensei. As much as he loved the kids he taught, he didn't want to keep playing the same songs over and over again in a school for the rest of his life. He wanted to challenge himself; start writing his own music, play songs that needed practice in order to master. As much as he hated to admit it, he wanted the approval of others as well. He wanted to know what it was like to be praised and have people want to listen to his music. But that didn't mean he wanted a stadium of people. He just wanted a small bar, with a few friendly faces to appreciate him. Money wasn't really an object anymore. He just wanted to do what he loved.
Already he was getting himself so pumped about this exciting new future that he didn't think that it needed any more consideration. That was it. That was what he wanted to do. It didn't matter if he was broke, living in a run down old apartment with his old man and living off of nothing but soup. And he knew the perfect place to start off.
He looked at the watch on his wrist that read nine o'clock. He'd been playing for hours without even realising it.
With the new found adrenaline and conviction he put the guitar back in the case and closed it in a rush. He just sprinted out the door with it in hand along with his car keys, not even thinking his plan all the way through. All he knew was that he didn't want to be scraping the bottom of the barrel for the rest of his life, and if he didn't do it now while he still had the courage, then he'd never do it.
In a state of absolute determination Yamato pushed open the cafdoor, making the bell above it cry out in shock. The place was still quite empty and a few customers even turned round to see him walk up to the counter with curious glances. One of his fellow employees came up to greet him.
"Yamato? Are you covering for someone tonight? You aren't normally-"
"I want to perform tonight. Are there any open slots?"
He interrupted with a scowl which took the poor boy by surprise. He hadn't noticed the guitar case on Yamato's shoulder until he'd said this.
"You can play?"
He asked in disbelief. No one had ever spoke of Yamato being a musical person.
"Yes, and I can play well. Are there any slots?"
"There's one at eleven, but are you going to be okay? You don't look great. Do you still feel sick?"
Yamato had forgotten about grooming himself before he'd left the apartment in a rush, so it was now that he remembered what a state he must have looked. Pasty skin from malnutrition, hair disarray and looking dimmer from the lack of product in it, and his work jacket was crumpled and loose from having it screwed up in his bag while he was teaching. Feeling self conscious he tried to smooth it out, thinking it would make a difference somehow.
"I'm fine. You don't mind me hanging round until then, do you?"
He didn't want to go back to his empty apartment and the answer machine that was blank.
"It's fine, there's an empty table over there. Take a seat and I'll get you some water."
?hanks."
The customers all watched as he stalked to the back table and leant his guitar against one of the chairs and using another for himself. He cradled his head in his hand, his foot twitching in anticipation to get on stage as well as nervousness. He'd never thought in his life that he would be vain enough to do this. When the glass of water was placed on the table he gave a courteous nod to the waiter and took a hearty gulp of the clear liquid. The cold drink slipped down his inflamed throat, cooling it momentarily. It was still early, so he had more than enough to prepare himself. He felt the stare of the people around him, making him all the more aware that he probably looked a mess. After all, he was still wearing his suit and tie which probably seemed a little conspicuous in such a laid back environment.
He took off his crumpled grey jacket and stuffed it into the pocket of his guitar case with his blue tie. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his not quite clean white shirt and unbuttoned his collar to look a bit more like a casual suit. He couldn't perform in his boxers, so he left his trousers as they were, with their dusty stains and torn belt loops.
When he looked towards the stage he saw amps and a microphone being set in place. The first performer was getting ready at the table in the front. It would be the first time that Yamato was able to watch the beginning performers and be able to pay proper attention without having to refill coffee cups or swap change behind the till. He was looking forward to see what he had to compare to.
It was dark and cold on the main road that the two young men ventured down. Daisuke pulled on Takeru's shoulder, trying to lead him away from the block of apartments that he was charging towards with deep determination. So far it had been as much luck as trying to pull a starving lion away from a fresh carcass.
"Come on, Takeru. This isn't cool. We've both got lectures tomorrow and we don't even know this guy. What if he's really shady?"
"You mean Shinji? He used to be one of Yamato's friends, so he probably isn't all that bad. And since he used to know Yamato that must mean that he has stuff that guarantees a good time tonight."
Daisuke easily caught on to the subliminal message that Takeru was trying to convey. This only made him that more apprehensive about going to this supposed 'gathering'. Even the building looked menacing in some ways; several street lamps were shot, bins had been upturned and a few of the cars parked outside had the windows smashed in. It didn't look like the kind of place he wanted to be in, especially if Takeru was intending on loosing his senses in alcohol and other such intoxicating things. But, this being one of his best friends, he loosened the hold on his shoulder and followed obediently.
"If this turns out wild then I'm getting out of here straight away, and I'm taking you with me."
"Relax a little. Even Taichi is going to be there. Me and him will look after you."
Daisuke bit his lip to stop himself from saying anything, but dying to tell Takeru that he wouldn't trust Taichi to be much help at a time like this. As the open door came into view he wrapped his jacket tighter around himself and dug his hands into his pockets, wrapping his hand around his valuables in fear that he might be robbed or drop them and never see them again. Bouts of laughter were already echoing down the set of stairs and the heavy bass from a stereo. It practically shook the paper thin walls that he put his hand against as he climbed the stairs.
When the floor they wanted came into sight Takeru jogged up the last few stairs, hearing a familiar voice down the corridor.
"Oi, Taichi! That you up there?"
A thick head of hear peered around the door of the open apartment along with several other strangers' and a bright grin widened as his bloodshot eyes squinted to see Takeru approaching.
"Ah, its you! The little one!"
He slurred and balanced his beer bottle on the floor before stumbling past a few people towards them. Takeru was uncaring towards his filthy state and gave the man a hug anyway which was returned with drunken enthusiasm. When it was Daisuke's turn to be hugged he stiffened at the ripe smell of him, but still tried his best to wrap his arms around him. An arm was kept around his shoulder for balance.
"Daisuke, where're your goggles? I'm offended you don't wear 'em anymore. If I knew you weren't gonna wear 'em then I wouldn't have given 'em to ya'."
He laughed and ran a hand that was soaked with beer through Daisuke's dark hair, smiling brightly at Takeru who watched.
"You guys should come inside. Shinji's got a keg! It's so cool. I've already had like half of it, but there should be enough left for you guys. Especially you, 'cause we all know you hold your alcohol as good as a little girl."
He pointed Daisuke in the face he dodged in time to avoid having his nose prodded. Takeru was already smiling and heading inside on his own to get a start on the evening.
"I'll be there in a sec. I've just got to make a phone call."
"A'ite, you do that. I'm gonna try and get a drinkin' game started."
With an enthusiastic slap to the younger's back Taichi shouted out the name of someone that he saw at the door and chased in after them while Daisuke fished for his phone in his jacket pocket and began searching through his contacts. He could already hear Takeru's voice over the others from inside and realised with a sigh that the night wouldn't be one that he wanted to remember in the morning.
He hadn't even drank any coffee, and yet Yamato was buzzing and twitching in his seat, watching as the female performer sauntered off stage and back to her table. He was already thinking about backing out. Now that he was able to properly watch the performers, he had realised that there was absolutely no fucking way that he could compete with any of them. Most of them were much older with far more experience and with their own unique flair that Yamato knew he didn't have. Hell, he hadn't even practised and only just made his choice of what song he wanted to play. He'd just assumed that all would be well so long as he didn't drop the guitar or throw up on himself. But now, as he felt his foreboding doom swiftly approaching, it seemed like he was ten years too early to get up on that stage.
His friend who was helping to set up his act was pointing towards him and signalling to come on stage. Though the gesture was harmless enough, Yamato was picturing the man as a horned demon, signalling for him to drop into a pit of fire and nails.
"Aren't you going to go up?"
The waiter standing next to him asked, taking away the empty glass of water and putting it on his tray. Yamato, startled by the voice stood up and pushed back the chair.
"I...uh.."
He began, thinking up a quick excuse to dash out of there. There was no way he could do this, absolutely no way. These people would slaughter him. Halfway through the act they'd probably laugh and throw him in the back alley to kill him. He looked to the door with longing, thinking that he could probably just grab his guitar case and just sprint out of there. He could probably drive off before they even noticed that he was gone.
But, then again.
"Yeah, I'm going up."
Those were soon to be famous last words, he was sure of it. He shakily picked up the guitar next to him, finding it to be so much heavier than when he'd carried it in. He approached with caution as he watched the man on stage adjust the second microphone for his guitar and place the chair beside it. He spotted the wooden steps to the stage and repeated to himself over and over that he wouldn't trip on them. He needed to save as much of his remaining dignity as possible for when he ran out after the song.
Those three steps just didn't take long enough to climb, for soon enough he felt the bright lights on him, making him perspire more than he had been for the past hour or so. He set the case to the side of the stage and opened it slowly, savouring the time he had left. He took out the neck holder for his harmonica and adjusted it around his neck, now realising that after growing it fit much better around him and probably wouldn't slip like it used to do. He picked up his guitar by her neck and waltzed to the chair that sat on the front of the stage, looking at the small crowd with an expression of pure horror. He could hear the few people whispering among themselves, sipping their coffee loudly, clacking their shoes on the wooden floor, all the while staring him down like they would a piece of furniture at an auction.
When he sat down on the chair and placed the guitar on his knee he didn't know where to look. There were so many faces watching him, it felt awkward to focus on one. So he looked to his shoes and cleared his throat, hearing the noise echo on the speakers around the cafe. He couldn't tell if he liked or disliked the idea of the crowd being able to hear him so clearly.
Minding the way of the harmonica that was held to his lips with the brace he leaned in towards the microphone.
"H-Hi...uh...I'm Ishida Yamato and th-this song is 'Boots of Spanish Leather'. Um, please excuse my bad English accent."
He laughed, and a few people in the audience chuckled quietly along with him. At least some of them were friendly.
Even before he started playing he felt wary about his song choice, thinking that he could interrupt himself and change his mind in hopes to save himself. It would be difficult to keep up his intricate guitar playing while thinking over the meaning to the foreign lyrics. But the challenge would do him good. And if he miraculously managed to pull it off then he would give such immense praise to the entity that followed over him.
He adjusted the neck brace for the last time before moving his fingers into their starting positions. His heart was pounding and his lungs just couldn't seem to take in enough air, even when he'd started playing. He chose to keep his eyes on his fingers so that he could immerse himself in the music and turn his attention away from the interested faces of his onlookers.
With the pick slipping in his sweating hand he focused on playing at the right pace, strumming the right strings and moving his fingers around the different chords and decorations of the quiet backing melody. Closing his eyes against the harsh stage lighting he pursed his moist lips upon the cool metal of the harmonica and concentrated on his breathing. He moved away from the microphone to keep the wind instrument as a quiet accompaniment, blending softly with the pacing notes from the strings he plucked. He tried his best not to move as he usually did to the music, thinking that it would affect the volume. When he blew heavily on the final note of the introduction he leaned away from the microphone to soften it to fade out. Then he began to sing.
"I'm sailing away, my own true love. I'm sailing away in the morning.
Is there something I can send you from across the see,
from the place that I'll be landing?"
He could hear the dusty husk in his voice from the lack of practice, but that worked in his favour for such a song. He just kept his eyes closed and his lips pointing towards the microphone that he could sense was close in front of him. As the rough melody filled the cafe he felt his surroundings fade away into an empty universe where there was nothing there but him. His knees stopped shaking and he felt his wrists loosen to let the melody flow much easier.
"Oh, but if I had the stars from the darkest night, and diamonds from the deepest ocean
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss
For that's all I'm wishing to be owning."
As the song went on he could hear his voice sounding more watery as the music overwhelmed him. The lyrics that spoke of a separated love, so sweet and sad. He felt an imaginary wind brush his warm, sweating cheeks, and an unreal ocean that lapped at his ankle in cold swipes, filling his battered shoes. The lights on his face became rays of a foreign sun and the chattering of the customers became the whistling cackle of seagulls overhead. He brought the harmonica to his lips before the last few verses and improvised notes and harmonies that he felt sounded right; notes that his soul told him to play. It felt just like he was messing around with his music in his room. His face serene and uncaring. He was no longer concerned about the microphone as he swayed with the melody.
"I got a letter on a lonesome day. It was from her ship a-sailing
Saying I don't know when I'll be coming back again
It depends on how I'm feeling."
The volume was rising and falling, whispering when the lyrics told him to, and letting his voice soar forth when his emotions took him.
"So take heed, take heed of the western wind. Take heed of the stormy weather
And yes, there's something you can send back to me
Spanish boots of Spanish leather"
His fingers loosened and the strums on the guitar strings became soft, easily mistaken for a sensual caresses across a lover's skin. He allowed himself to quietly hum the melody, letting out only the barest whisper of a note that smoothly echoed from the speakers. Then with a content sigh he plucked the last few notes and allowed them to linger before an intense silence that only added to the feeling of being isolated. That's why he almost jumped out of the chair when he heard the clapping of the audience. His startled blues opened wide, dilating after they were suddenly exposed to the stage lights. And when they adjusted he looked out to see the few people that sat at the table clapping with smiles on their faces.
He felt his heart flutter and he laughed away from the microphone. It was such a strange feeling that overtook him. He didn't know any of these people, and yet to see them smile was just seemed to be the greatest sight he could imagine. He had just bared his soul in the form of a simple cover song, and they not only accepted it, they liked it. With more confidence than he had the first time around Yamato began playing again, deciding on the spot what songs he wanted to play. He didn't dare play one of his own composed pieces just yet. One step at a time was a perfect pace for him.
Then when his last song ended the crowd cheered for the last time, with a bit more enthusiasm. Yamato's cheeks even shaded a darker pink when a few audience members whistled at him and knocked their shoes against the table legs. With a few bashful words of thanks he grinned brightly at the customers and walked back towards his open guitar case, feeling as though the experience was so serene. When the applause died down and the lights dimmed he went back to the empty table to the side of the cafe to watch the rest of the acts. Performing later on in the evening was the elderly saxophone player that he'd always wanted to approach, so now that he wasn't working he'd have the chance to. But as he relaxed into the chair he found himself to be the one being approached.
"Is this seat taken?"
A wavering voice asked in his ear, and he turned to see a creased face and a dusty tweed suit beside him. A worn palm was indicating to the chair beside him, and Yamato shook his head in a state of awe.
"N-No."
He stuttered, his smile only widening as the man pulled out the chair. His rickety knees slowly lowered him onto the seat, and with a responding smile he pulled the chair up to the table. With a tilted glance the elderly man looked at the supposed youthful musician before him, not noticing much about him from afar.
"You okay there, young man? You look a little pale."
He leaned forward a bit towards Yamato and folded his arms on the table. With rose tinged cheeks blaring out from his ashen face Yamato shook his head in embarrassment and smile.
"Oh, yeah I'm fine. I'm just a bit worn out. That really drained me."
"A young man like you? Where's all your youthful energy? I'm the one that should be worn out."
They both laughed quietly as they looked to see the next performer make their way to the stage. A frail young woman. The old man leaned in to Yamato to talk quietly in his ear when the cafsilenced in anticipation.
"Are you in a hurry to leave?"
Yamato shook his head again in looked around in interest. From close up he could see the plump, marred lips of the old man that he usually saw wrapped around a saxophone. They thinned into a smile at the answer.
"In that case, would you accept a cup of coffee from a senile old prune?"
"That sounds wonderful."
The man shakily held out his hand with a smile, which Yamato took in his own, feeling the soft yet contoured skin against the pads of his fingers.
"I'm Watanabe Shou."
He whispered as the woman on stage took her place in front of the microphone. His handshake was firm and certain.
"Ishida Yamato. Nice to meet you."
Turning away, the man signalled to the worker behind the counter to refill his coffee and bring over a second one for Yamato. Neither were paying attention when the mugs were brought over to them. Both the dimmed grey eyes of the old man, and the tired cerulean of the younger were held to the female violinist stood to the front of the wooden stage, in the same seat that Yamato had sat only moments before.
"-and then as we were driving up to Rome there was this man, not much older than myself, sitting on this cardboard box by the side of the road with all this junk laid out in front of him. And in that pile of toot, was an old brass saxophone, the one that I own to this very day."
"And this was two years ago?"
"Yep. And I haven't parted from the pretty little thing ever since."
Thin smoke drifted from between the split lips of Wanatabe Sou while Yamato downed the rest of his coffee with an awkward glance to the side. He was feeling a bit intimidated now by the elderly man. He'd only been playing music for two years, and yet he had the skill to outplay most record dealt artists out there. Yamato on the other hand had been playing since he was eleven and still struggled to be anything other than a mediocre musician. Lowering his mug to the table Yamato looked straight into the washed eyes of the other, ignoring the wall of smoke that passed across him from the cigarette that was held between dented fingers.
"I have to admit that I am scarily amazed. I almost find that unbelievable after hearing you play. You're so professional."
With a laugh he stubbed his cigarette into the marble ashtray on the table and leaned in with a smile.
"Well, being an unemployed bum like myself, I've done nothing but live for what I love. And for two years after I found that rusty old sax, I've loved nothing more.
Yamato inhaled his smoky breath without a care, hanging onto every word that passed his lips as though they each held the answers to all he wanted to hear. When he leant back into his chair Yamato's eyes followed him with interest.
"Now enough about me, young man. I've been flattered more than I should be. What about you? You don't normally perform here. What made you get up on stage?"
Feeling shy about the question Yamato looked down to his hands on the table that were playing with the handle of the smooth white coffee mug.
"I haven't had a chance to play for quite a while, and I wanted to get back into playing again. The music teacher at my work even convinced me to take it up performing as a full time job."
He laughed as though it were an absurd suggestion, and despite conquering his fear he still believed that it was. Nothing more than a silly notion from a man that was oblivious to the realities of the world. Across his vision a tanned limb reached out to him and placed a warm palm over his hands. When Yamato looked up, the face that greeted him was reassuring and warm; far to welcoming to belong to a near stranger. Wanatabe Shou whispered as though what he was telling him as a vitally important secret.
"Personally, I think you look more natural holding an instrument, than you do holding a tray of dirty dishes. Even though you were shaking like a leaf in storm season when you first started playing."
By the end of his sentence he was laughing throatily into his gently curled fist. The high smile on his face dug more lines into his cheeks that branched off and towards each other like branches of a tree. Yamato felt the laughter bubbling within him as well, only to regret it when the short spasm of his muscles agitated his stomach. Feeling the empty ache overwhelm him he clutched to his stomach with a wince, not noticing the concerned look coming from beside him.
"You alright, boy? You're not ill are you?"
"No, I'm really enjoying this. I just haven't been able to eat much recently and I'm out of energy."
He pushed out a laugh so to not dampen the light mood too much. But worrying over his new friend the old man lay a hand on his shoulder in attempts to soothe or console him.
"If you're low on money then I'm more than happy to buy-"
"No, no don't worry. It's probably just stress. I'm not unwell, but the thought of food makes me sick and I can hardly keep it down."
Yamato waved away the suggestion, hating to accept his charity even if it was aimed well. With a nod of understanding he tightened his hold on Yamato's shoulder for a moment.
"I'm sorry such a bad thing is happening. I can only say that I wish you well enough to perform here again. I'll be looking forward to it."
"I'll be looking forward to your performance as well."
Yamato smiled and loosened his arms that were tightly pressed against his stomach. Then with a weary sigh he leant back into the wooden chair, allowing himself to relax beneath the comforting hand on his shoulder. Understanding Yamato's needs somehow the man left his hand there, thinking that the small amount of contact would comfort him in some way, which it did.
When he came home it was pitch black; a sign that his father had yet to come home. He didn't mind though. He was satisfied enough to have had a peaceful evening to himself after so long. No one to drag to bed, no one to pick up or drop off, no one's vomit to clean up or anything. That is until he saw the blinking red numbers on his answering machine.
Six messages.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to listen to them, knowing that his calm and quite evening would be jeopardised by someone who'd left that many messages. He ignored it at first, choosing to enjoy his personal time alone for as long as he could. He took his guitar case and work bag to his room and organised the creased papers into their folders, all the while sparing a few glances to the phone in the living room, feeling his curiosity flare. When he turned on the television he didn't pay attention to what was on, he just kept his eye on the little red light that taunted him. What harm would it do to just listen to them? He didn't necessarily have to reply to them or anything. He finalised his decision by pressing the button on the phone, the robotic voice ringing out over the sound of the television.
"YOU HAVE SIX MESSAGES. MESSAGE ONE, RECEIVED AT TWELVE THIRTEEN AM."
"Daisuke here. Just so you know, Taichi's out with me and Takeru tonight. Uh, he seems kinda out of it, just to warn you, so we're going to keep an eye on him, 'kay? So, talk to you later, no need to call me back or anything. Bye."
"MESSAGE TWO, RECEIVED AT ONE THIRTY AM."
"It's Daisuke. Taichi's acting really fucking weird and...I dunno if something happened or not between you, but he's freaking me out. Call me back if you get this, he might need to be taken home. Sorry about this. Okay, bye."
"MESSAGE THREE, RECEIVED AT TWO FIFTEEN AM."
"It's me, it's about two am. now, and you should probably get down here. Taichi's fucked and I don't know if I can keep tabs on him right now. He keeps shouting and he drank a lot and...we're at Shinji's place. It's the apartment block near the station, apartment fourteen. I think you should come down here and get him, or at least help us try and sober him up. We're all fucking scared of him right now. Please call me back."
"MESSAGE FOUR, RECEIVED AT-"
Yamato cut off the machine before the message could even play. He could guess who they were from or at least what they concerned. As much as he wanted to ignore Daisuke's plight he knew that it was too serious to avoid doing so. He dialled the number that he remembered and felt his hands shake as he listened to the dial tone. When the other person answered his call he didn't hear a voice. Instead he cringed at the sound of blaring music, rowdy party goers and a few quiet sobs. From hearing that he already began collecting his things to leave.
"Daisuke? What's going on down there? Where's Taichi?"
He heard another sob and then a deep intake of breath.
"Oh thank fuck. Yamato, it's a mess. More guys showed up and I think half of them are just fucking junkies off the street, but we can't get them to leave. I've lost Takeru and no one's sober enough to tell me where he is, and Taichi's gone too. I don't know if he left the apartment or something but he was yelling all this shit about you and Takeru and he just flipped out and-"
"Calm down. I'm on my way now. Just give me fifteen minutes to get up there."
"I'll wait by the stairs to meet you. Thank you so much. "
Yamato nodded, too preoccupied to realise that Daisuke couldn't see his act of confirmation. He hung up before anything else could be said and grabbed his car keys from the table. Without bothering to do up his laces he slipped on his shoes and dashed out of the apartment.
Before he had even pulled up to the apartment block Yamato could hear the heavy music and screaming from inside. But when he actually saw what was going on he felt too intimidated to leave his car. There were quite a few shady looking men congregated around the entrance, each with a bottle and a cigarette in their hands. The street lights loomed over them and created demonic shadows around them. Two or three of them he recognised from his earlier days of partying. The rest of them looked about ready to start a fight with whoever approached them.
Deciding to get it over with he turned off the engine to his car and opened the door. He realised that he should've parked further away from the building than he had. A beautiful car like his was probably at risk of being stolen or vandalised and he felt the difficulty of having to part with it. He would have kissed it goodbye if not for the looming figures that began to approach him.
"Hey look, it's Yami! Where've you been? We missed you."
He ignored the slurring voice of the man from his past and pushed by him towards the entrance, saving himself from the foul alcoholic breath of the larger man.
"Ah, Yami, where you goin'?"
The drunkard called and watched as Yamato waded his way through another crowd of people in order to get up the stairs. The closer he got to the apartment the more people there seemed to be. Large groups blocked his way up the stairs and down corridors and a few times he even felt a few hands attempt to pull or push him back. It was the worst when he reached the third floor. There wasn't enough space to breath, and even if he did he'd inhale nothing but alcoholic fumes and smoke from laced cigarettes.
"Daisuke!"
He called out and used the shoulders of strangers for leverage so that he could see what was going on. Slumped outside the door of the crowded apartment was a burgundy haired man with his hands clutched to his head and accompanied by a few empty beer cans and a lot of burnt out cigarette stubs. As soon as he heard the heavenly voice of the older he clawed at the wall in order to pull himself up pitifully.
"Yamato!"
He called and watched as the blonde head sailed through the sea of others and approached him. He was so happy that he would have rushed to greet him, but he knew that as soon as he moved away from the wall he would either vomit all over him or fall on top of him. When Yamato finally approached Daisuke felt himself drunkenly slumping forward into the man's chest.
"'mato. I think I'm drunk."
He slurred into his shoulder and Yamato gently guided him back to the wall to have him sit down. Reaching into his small bag Yamato pulled out a bottle of water that he hadn't expected would be so useful to him.
"Drink this and sit down. Where did you last see Takeru?"
He shouted over the pounding music and rubbed Daisuke's muscled shoulder as he tried several times to guide the mouth of the bottle to his lips. His perception had been warped considerably after all of the alcohol. Water spilt past his lips and down his neck.
"He was inside, but I dunno if he left and it's too crowded to see him in there. Those new guys are fuckin' thugs, 'mato."
After giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder Yamato stood up to once again survey the surroundings. The apartment was so thick with smoke that it covered the huddled figures like a thick fog. It was no wonder Takeru got lost in there, and the thought that he wouldn't be able to find his way out made him very anxious.
"Okay. I'm going to go look for them. Just sit here, I'll take you home, okay?"
"Thank you. M'sorry."
After tugging onto his trouser leg as an appreciative gesture Daisuke watched as Yamato dived into the foggy crowd with his hands firmly clutching his bag to his chest. Just inhaling the second hand smoke made Yamato dizzy and feel the synthetic stimulation haze his senses. It even seemed that most people he pushed past were purposely turning to him in order to blow the smog into his face. The place was packed to the point of being comparable with sardines in a tin. There was no shoulder that was free from being pressed against another. Trying to manoeuvre through the people was as difficult as trying to wade through sand. When he pushed someone they wouldn't move, but simply fall back into place and obstruct his path once more. Just when the living area came to sight over the top of people's heads, Yamato found himself wrapped in a strangers arms with his back pressed against a foreign chest.
"Oi, blondie, who'd you come with?"
The man was ripe with the smell of sweat, smoke and beer, and his stubbled chin was forcibly pressed against Yamato's shoulder despite the struggle he gave. With the man considerably weakened with alcohol consumption, Yamato was able to pry himself free and turned to face the stranger. He was met with bloodshot eyes, a raw nose and a crooked smile. He ignored the fact that the guy was leaning closer with each second and placed a hand on his shoulder so to keep him a safe distance away from him.
"Have you seen my brother? A short blonde kid, blue eyes. Looks a lot like me."
When he enquired the man put a hand on his chin, jokingly pretending to think, and Yamato realised that it was pointless asking him. He didn't wait for an answer and turned away to leave only to be pulled back by two firm hands on his hips. The man's breath was disgustingly hot and moist as he whispered into his ear.
"I may have. How about we discuss this further over a few shots in the back room."
Yamato would have politely declined and walk away, sensible enough to avoid a drunken fight. But when the rough hands began to reach under his shirt and grope his chest he found his sensible thought left him to fend for himself. The unfamiliar fingers pressed into his chest, pulling him back once more, and Yamato dug his elbow into the surface behind him.
"Keep your hands to yourself!"
He cried and twisted the wrist of the hand that dare to touch him as he pulled it out from beneath his clothes. The man was too drunk to feel the pain of his wrist and merely chuckled at the fuming blonde he was wrapped around.
"Whoa, save the violence for the bedroom."
"Save you're dirty talk for someone who gives a shit!"
With a final slap to the perverts head Yamato continued to the sofa where he saw a very familiar face.
"Shinji!"
The redhead was splayed across the sofa with a few women with a thickly stuffed cigarette in his hand. When he caught sight of Yamato trying to get through to him he stood up to help pull him through the barrier of people surrounding him. He put his cigarette on top of an empty beer can.
"Yamato!"
He called with a delirious grin and pulled Yamato forward with a hold on his forearm. He was already leading him back to the sofa as he greeted him.
"My God, Yami, it's been fucking ages. Here, come sit and do a line with me, we need to hang out."
While Yamato was trying to break his arm free Shinji used his other shaking hand to reach into his pocket and pull out a half empty bag of white powder. When the women on the sofa spotted it they all began to giggle and crawl closer to where he stood, fondling his jacket in a pleading manner.
"No, thanks. Where's Takeru? Is he still here?"
When Shinji let go of Yamato's arm he picked up his cigarette and took a draw, leaning back on the arm of the sofa. He handed the small bag to the woman next to him and she took with a dazed smile, helping herself instantly she began to set it up on the coffee table in front of them. Shinji inhaled the drug fumes from his cigarette deeply and made sure not to blow it in Yamato's face like everyone else had done. He handed it to Yamato while he spoke.
"He's in the bedroom with Taichi. I reckon those two must have just passed out on the bed or something, 'coz they were out of their fuckin' minds. Takeru only did a few keys, so he should be fine. But Taichi, God, you should check if he's still breathin' after that episode."
He laughed despite the slightly serious tone in his voice which was noticed easily. Feeling a bit overwhelmed by the atmosphere Yamato didn't realise that he had automatically raised the cigarette to his mouth until he felt the butt brush against his lips. Without a second thought to it he took a quick draw and handed the lit wad of paper back to Shinji. From just a lungful of smoke he could feel the drug dampen his consciousness and it felt as though his brain had been submerged in warm water, dulling all thought and softening his senses.
"I'm going to find them."
He informed and looked around to find the easiest route to the bedroom now with slight disorientation. He could see the closed door that his brother and lover were apparently behind, but it looked like he'd have to struggle to get to it. So he hiked his bag further onto his shoulder and began to make his way around all of the empty bottles and cans on the floor as well as the people that refused to move out of his way. He knocked on the bedroom door with a solid fist, loud enough to be heard over the pounding bass of the music.
"Takeru! Taichi! You in there?"
With no reply he reached for the door handle, hoping to God that Shinji wasn't wrong and that he'd end up walking in on some stranger having sex. Getting it over with he swung the door open quickly and held his breath. The room was in complete darkness with only the light from the corridor behind him as a way to see. He moved further into the room to allow more light in, and his sight began to adjust to the darkness. He saw the outline of the curtain drawn window, the chest of draws, the bed with its sheets tossed to the floor, and two collapsed bodies on top of it. The blonde head of hair and the pale skin was illuminated on the pillow, a dead give away that it was Takeru. His pale, naked legs were thrown over the tanned hips of the other naked body in the bed and Yamato almost collapsed to the floor in shock.
The smell of sex was heavy in the dim room and with the new light he could see the damp remains of intercourse on the bed and on the flushed skin of the naked men before him. In his mind he was screaming curse after God hating curse, while in reality nothing but a terrified squeak passed his dry lips. He covered his mouth at the noise, startling himself at how pathetic he was acting. He watched as the smaller of the two released a grown and rolled away from the naked body next to him. At the very least Yamato was glad to see that his little brother was still alive. He saw both of their clothes scattered across the floor and reached down to pick up Takeru's jeans, but not before feeling the pack of cigarettes in the pocket and dropping them in the bin.
People behind him in the living room began to drunkenly push against him and try and look over his shoulder to see what was going on. In desperation to keep it private he shoved a few bodies back and closed the door, containing himself in the room with the nightmare behind him. Even though he wasn't facing the bed the sight was still in his mind, painted on the door in front of him, tattooed on his hands, stitched into the denim of his jeans. There were so man different scenarios that ran through his head on how such a situation came to be. But only one stuck in his head as the answer.
His poor little, heterosexual brother, who was dating his sex partner's sister no less. He couldn't blame Takeru though. He was his innocent flesh and blood, new to the world of alcohol and drugs when he'd turned a legal age. But Taichi was a fiend.
Feeling anger overpower remorse he slammed on the light switch next to him, hearing Takeru mumble again at the bright intrusion. Taichi hadn't even moved. Yamato watched his brother try to duck under the pillow beneath him as he gathered what little of his siblings clothes that he could find. His shoes weren't there, his boxers weren't found either, but he'd managed to find his top and jeans. Both were muddy, torn, and smelt of sweat and smoke. It was a sickly combination that made him want to vomit on top of the bodily scent of the room after the animalistic activity. Finally approaching the bed he pulled the pillow away that covered his brother's face.
"Takeru, get up. Now."
His voice was horrifically stoic, like the seething command of a demon wanting blood. But his face was blank, not even a twitch of his brow gave him away, not that Takeru even noticed. He just heard the command and complied in complete weak submission. He kept his eyes closed as he sat up and rubbed his sore head. All the while Yamato was pulling the shirt over his head and guiding his arms into the correct place to fit it on properly. Every time Takeru slumped backwards his brother would jerk him forward and continue his task. He ignored the fluids on the boy's body and the sight of his raw, spent genitals and pulled on the jeans, using the bedsheets on the floor to wipe clean what was left on his stomach. He'd numbed himself to the thought of what caused all this, only seeing an angry red whenever his thoughts strayed from the task at hand. He felt himself grip his brother's arm much tighter than he'd ever done before, and pulling him to stand was a gesture that was equally as violent. When Takeru leant into his chest for support he didn't feel the usual content of being connected with his brother, but instead he stiffened his body freezing completely and his shoulders tensing to hunch into his neck. He slowly pushed the boy away with a grip on his forearms.
"Where are your shoes?"
Takeru mumbled and shook his head, trying to get closer to the warmth of his brother's body. He was so tired. It felt like he was seeing the world through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. When he dropped his head to his feet it looked like his legs reached miles below him and he felt his balance waver.
Yamato turned Takeru away from him when he felt him begin to wobble and he pushed from behind to lead him out the door. That is, until he reached for the door handle he turned back to the bed, seeing a nude Taichi, as unmoving as he had been when he entered the room. With the rage that he felt he secretly hoped that the bastard was dead, knowing that later he would feel horribly guilty for wishing that upon anyone. He knew Shinji wouldn't want to find a dead body in his room the next morning.
He leant Takeru's back against the wall and watched him slump against it as he walked to the bed. As he approached the body he began to hear the quiet whistle of steady breathing. He was alive. He stood beside the body, seeing a subtle rise and drop of the tanned chest. From the sounds of it his breathing was steady. He began to feel nauseous when he forced himself to check his heartbeat. Taichi's chest was cold and slick with sweat with evident bruising from someone's teeth marking his collarbone. When his hand reached the left side of his chest he felt the heavy thrum of a heartbeat. It was racing. Possibly from 'strenuous activity' or from the drugs he'd probably taken shortly before. Just to be sure he peeled back Taichi's eyelids and from what little that he cold see both pupils contracted regularly, showing that he would probably wake up soon. Finally he rested a hand against his sweaty forehead, peeling back the moist hairs that stuck to it so that he could get an accurate reading. It felt a little warm, but not enough to be concerned about. The bastard would live to see the next day. When he peeled his hand away he could feel the remains of the wet skin across his palm. In disgust he wiped it on his jeans and groaned in distaste.
He looked to see that Takeru had slid to the floor and closed his eyes again, falling asleep. With the way the situation was progressing he'd have to carry his brother to the car, something that he had nowhere near enough energy to do successfully. Not to mention he'd have to help a drunk Daisuke downstairs as well, and push his way through the stiff crowd. It all seemed impossible. He could feel his back aching from the thought of didn't notice Taichi squirming beside him, the begging of consciousness disturbing his calmed high. It wasn't until a tired and limp hand brushed against his own that he looked down. The man didn't notice or didn't care about the exposure of his body, using one hand to shield his eyes from the hanging light and the other was stretched out in search.
"Yama? Where are you?"
He croaked with a pitiful whine and curled into himself, still outstretching his shaking hand in search for Yamato's. But the blonde took a step back, avoiding an unnecessary contact completely. He could feel his features finally cringing with overwhelming emotion that he'd tried to push back. His eyes began to swell and sting and he could feel hot puffs of breath shooting from his nostrils in short bursts, like a bull rearing to charge. When Taichi began to push up on his elbows he felt his body acting in stead for his absent mind. He used the step back that he had taken to propel himself forward, his fist clenched and raised to his jaw. With a swing of as much forced he could handle he hit a chiselled cheekbone, sending the man back down to the mattress cupping his face. Taichi had probably reared back out of shock rather than pain. Yamato was far too tired to inflict any pain that Taichi wouldn't be able to handle.
"What the fuck? Ugh."
Yamato stormed away in a sulk and grabbed Takeru's shoulder, pulling him up from the floor violently, hearing his teeth rattle together from the harsh movement. When he swung open the door there was a group of people standing right in the doorway, staring at him with lazy eyes.
"Get the fuck out of the way!"
He growled and pushed the first shoulder he felt, dragging Takeru along behind him. This time when he made his way through the crowd people actually moved back to let him pass, seeing the rage radiating off of him like an ominous glow. He could see Shinji on the sofa scramble up after hearing his force, but with a hateful glare from Yamato he sat back down and only watched as Yamato left the apartment. Now that Takeru was coming to his senses he was returning to his usual difficulties. Every time Yamato pulled him forward Takeru would move back. When someone knocked Yamato back into Takeru, he would push him back with enough force to throw him. With every pull and push he found his anger growing enough to almost take it out on his brother. But he would never get far enough to actually carry out his urges.
Daisuke was still sat on the floor outside of the apartment, the half finished water bottle pressed to his chest like it were his security blanket; or maybe he was just using it to distract himself so not to vomit. Yamato reached his hand out to him wordlessly and the drunken male took it gratefully, using him as support to help himself stand. Neither of them spoke when Yamato led the two younger men down the stairs, his arm hooked around Takeru's tensed shoulders and his other hand holding Daisuke's behind him. But when they reached the bottom of the stairs and the music died down as they created distance Daisuke only just realised with his hazy mind that someone was missing.
"Yamato, did you see Taichi in there? I'm worried. I think-"
"Taichi's fine."
He interrupted with a firm tone that told Daisuke not to involve himself an further in the matter. He could secretly guess what might have happened, after so many times of seeing it for himself, but that didn't make him any less upset about it. Simply because he thought that he would only make it worse by trying to pry, Daisuke nodded in revered silence and followed him to the car.
Yamato was too distracted to be grateful that his car was unharmed. If anything when he jammed his key in the lock and ripped open the door it would look like he was the one that was trying to vandalise it. Takeru was laid across the back seat of the car, the seat belt only winding around his chest to keep him in place, and Daisuke took the passenger side seat, noticing the solid face of the older male behind the steering wheel.
"Where do you guys need dropping off? The dorms? Or do you want to go home?"
He put the key in the ignition almost forcefully snapping it and revved the engine. Daisuke rubbed his temple and leaned into the window as he replied.
"I don't know if I can go home like this, and I don't know if they'll let us into the dorms either."
"You two can just crash at mine then. My Dad probably won't be home so there's a bed for both of you."
"What 'bout you?"
"I've got to get up for work in a few hours anyway. I'll just have a nap on the sofa."
Nothing but the engine and Takeru's light snoring was heard for a while between them. Daisuke wiped the sweat from his forehead onto the glass of the car window as he lazily turned his head to look at Yamato. His watery eyes didn't show pity. Instead they seemed to show what Yamato should be feeling himself, if he weren't so numb.
"I'm sorry."
Daisuke's gentle voice spoke more than his words. His apology was much deeper than the rest of the conversation made it out to be. It wasn't just for that reason and wasn't just for himself either. And Yamato was grateful for it. For Daisuke's sake he relaxed his shoulders that little bit and loosened his deathly grip on the leather steering wheel, knowing that by just loosening his posture he could make the atmosphere less tense that it was. He didn't take his eyes off the road and reached his arm out for Daisuke, brushing his shoulder as some kind of reassurance.
"Don't be sorry."
He whispered, and saw to make the gesture seem less awkward he ran the same hand through his hair, holding back from digging his nails into his skull just so he could feel something. He wanted to awaken the rage that had died down, to cry and scream. Not even his foot on the gas pedal gave away the tenseness that he thought he felt. They still travelled at a slow and calm pace back to the empty apartment that he knew was waiting for them.
Daisuke held the door open while Yamato dragged an uncooperative Takeru into the apartment with the arm hooked around his neck. The exhausted smell coming from the younger man was making Yamato feel nauseous, but he wouldn't let that get in the way of taking the best care of his younger brother. He mumbled a thank you as Daisuke closed the door behind him and hauled Takeru higher onto his shoulder, dropping his bag by the door along with the shoe rack. He toed off his own shoes and Daisuke did the same before heading inside.
"My Dad's room is just opposite the bathroom. You can sleep there."
He told the darker haired man an began to drag his way to his room to drop Takeru onto the bed. He didn't bother to turn on the bedroom light and had to guess his way around the mess in his quarters.
"Thanks, Yamato."
Daisuke called in a weak hum and retired to the king sized bed that he would have all to himself. Meanwhile, Yamato was busy throwing Takeru's top half onto the bed with his lifeless legs dangling over the side for him to haul into position. The pillow was moved to accommodate Takeru's dead sleep with the sweat and grease in his hair contrasting with the clean white pillow he lay on. Yamato debated changing Takeru into his boxers at least, only to remember that beneath his jeans lay nothing but a naked mess which his more than reluctant to have wiped onto his bed. So he just left the clothes on, considering it to be a part of Takeru's punishment for now.
After turning on the kettle to make a cup of coffee, Yamato sat at the table in thought of the evening, wishing that he didn't have to resort to such a thing. But the silence of the apartment was tempting him to do so when there was nothing to distract him.
Propping his elbows onto the table he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes feeling the satisfying pressure wake him up that little bit, and as the sight of black behind his eyelids began to swirl the image began to take form once again. Naked bodies pressed into the mattress, bared to all that looked on without shame. A thick, tanned arm was looped around a pale waist, like a tainted streak across his once innocent skin. A shiver of disgust rattled through Yamato and he didn't realise that he'd been biting on his tongue until he felt the coppery burn of blood seeping from an arch of puncture marks.
He felt so many different emotions about what he'd just witnessed. But what worried him was how different he felt to how he expected he'd feel. While he'd been cleaning his brother and checking over Taichi he hadn't really felt anything. He'd expected it all to hit him once he'd gotten out of their. He expected the same horrible pain that he always did when Taichi upset him. On the drive home it had all begun to hit him.
He felt scared for the sake of his innocent younger brother and how he would be affected.
He felt betrayed by Taichi for using Takeru in the way that he did.
He even felt angry at himself for not putting a stop to it sooner.
But, for some reason. He didn't feel sad.
For the first time in a long time he wasn't upset that Taichi had slept with someone else. The only thing that had affected him was that it was his brother that he slept with, and he was only upset for Takeru's sake; not Taichi's and not his own either.
Perhaps that was the sign that he had needed all along. Something that told him that whatever they had together, had ended a long time ago. All the cheating, the stealing and the lies had pushed him away to the point that he'd already gotten over Taichi before they'd actually broken up. He'd been dealt with soft blows so that he would be strong enough to handle the finishing blow at the end.
It was understandable to feel that way. For so long he'd been holding onto the memory of what Taichi had been in order to stop himself from feeling trapped and alone. When he told Taichi 'I love you' he was telling it to the Taichi from five years ago. The man that would visit him at work just so that he could stare lovingly at him. The man that would pay for the romantic meal, or at least show up for the romantic meal. The man that would hold him in his arms without needing a reason to do so. The old Taichi wouldn't ask for anything in return but to be loved. Because Yamato had always thought that the old Taichi should be repaid for his kindness he had spoilt him when he asked for things. That was where it went wrong.
Hearing the kettle whistle he got up to pour the first cup of coffee. The bitter broth somewhat satisfied part of his craving for food. Not enough to quieten the growl of hunger, but enough to make him feel like he wasn't completely empty inside. Now he was filled with a settling heat that spread around the rest of his body. It was the same feeling he'd felt at the cafbeing filled with nothing but an empty warmth from several cups of coffee and hearing the sweet ramblings of an old musician.
It was strange for Yamato to have such respect for that old man, when in actuality he had done nothing but what he wanted for his whole life. He didn't do anything particularly great. He just lived how he wanted. In some ways that even sounded like a selfish way of living; not caring about any priorities or responsibilities and just abandoning them when he saw fit to make a change. And yet, despite to think about it in that light, Yamato still felt nothing but pure envy. To be able to say 'Fuck you' and walk away was something that he remembered being able to do when he was young. He didn't take shit from anyone, least of all Taichi or his father. They'd get a mouthful of his fist before they were ever able to order him around.
He would have laughed if someone ever told him that he'd end up working as a lowlife cafwaiter and still have to live with his father at the ripe age of twenty three.
Yamato put the mug of coffee on the counter when he realised that his hands were shaking. In fact, the rest of him was shaking just as badly. He could hear the rattle of scarily visible bones. Holding to his forearms in hoping to stifle the shudders he could feel that the biceps he had worked so hard to build up had already thinned. With his back pressed against the kitchen counter behind him he felt himself sliding down the thick surface until his tail bone hit the floor, leaving him slumped across the grime caked kitchen tiles. With an ironic smile he hit his head against the surface behind him and closed his eyes.
He could hear a muffled voice outside the reach of his jaded senses and a warm hand pulling him up, but he couldn't register what was going on. Why did his bed feel so uncomfortable, and what had happened for someone to wake him in such a gentle manner?
"Yamato. What happened? Are you okay?"
A deep voice echoed in sensitive ears and Yamato found himself wobbling as he attempted to stand with the help of firm hands
"Huh? What-"
He whimpered and leant against the sharp edge of the surface behind him and pulled at his eyelids to open them. He mostly saw grey blurs before him, swirling together to create a hazy stream of colours, all except for a visible bush of burgundy hair right in front of his face. Feeling the cold surface that he supported himself against he could tell that it was the granite counter of the kitchen, and the cold pattern of the kitchen tiles beneath his feet supported this discovery. Then, when his vision finally came into focus, he saw that he was definitely in the kitchen and beneath him was the floor that he had fallen asleep on the night before.
"Ah shit."
He cursed, vaguely recalling the sudden darkness that had interrupted him while in thought, what seemed only a little while ago.
"Yamato, what happened? Are you okay?"
Daisuke's voice reached out, accompanied by a muffled yet no less piercing ringing in his ears. He coughed into his wrist and leant further back into the counter, feeling his tired legs giving way.
"I must've just...fallen asleep here...what's the time?"
"It's eleven."
He was late for work. He pushed off the counter in a panic.
"Ah fuck, fu-"
He broke off a second swear after his vision went momentarily black. His body had just shut down for a second, and he felt himself falling. When he reached his knees two strong hands grabbed beneath his arms to stop him from hurting his head on the tiles.
"Whoa, Yamato!"
"I'm fine. Just, hand me the phone would you? 'Gotta call work."
His croaky reply didn't convince Daisuke at all. With the strength that he could muster, despite his hangover, he lifted the trembling body of Yamato to the dining chair to sit him down, and as soon as he was seated the pale hands gripped the edge of the table to stop himself from dropping forward. Daisuke disappeared and rushed back with the cordless phone in his hand. When it was giving to Yamato he flinched beneath its weight, as though he were holding a brick. Daisuke merely observed Yamato's sickly features as he dialled the number and told the receptionist that he was too ill to come into work and that he was very sorry. His reluctance was visible. He obviously hated to miss a day of work. But in the condition that he was in he would only be a hindrance if he went.
"I don't think Takeru should go to any lectures today."
Daisuke muttered after hanging up the phone. He was glancing at the entrance to Yamato's room which was scarily silent as the boy slept deeply.
"Mmm, me too. Do you need a ride home or anything?"
"No, Jun is going to pick me up soon."
With a nod Yamato began to stand back up.
"Do you want breakfast? We don't have much, though."
A firm thump on his shoulder pushed him back into his chair, and he looked to see Daisuke with a nervous smile leaning over him.
"Ah, it's okay. I'll make it."
He laughed and randomly opened a few cupboards to find something edible in Yamato's kitchen. A mission that wasn't very successful, and at every opportunity that arose he would spare a glance to the tired, thin man that held his head in his hands. It didn't look like would be able to get up even if he wanted to on the pins that hung limply from his hips over the chair.
The apartment was quiet once more after a failed attempt of breakfast. Daisuke had ran out to catch his last lecture when Jun picked him up and his Dad hadn't come home yet, which he was surprisingly thankful for. Jun hadn't even tried to flirt with him like usual after seeing his tired state. With no work he needed a bit of rest to work up enough energy to deal with his rebellious younger brother. Though it wasn't his job to educate him he still felt it necessary to do so.
Yamato tossed in his sleep as he heard the movement in the apartment. The padded footsteps of bare feet across the living room floor. The jerky roughly of denim jeans being adjusted. The hesitant jingle of spare change of keys being moved about. The movements were fr to diligent to belong to his father, so there was only one other person it could be.
He sat up swiftly from his sleeping place on the sofa, ignoring the rush of blood to his head, and turned to see Takeru putting on a pair of Yamato's converses and wearing his clothes. They fit him perfectly apart from the fact that the jeans he wore sagged at the ankles due to his shorter legs. He was obviously attempting to escape without being noticed. That was not something that Yamato was going to allow. He loved his brother, but love could also come in the form of punishment.
"Oi! Where do you think you're going?"
He called to Takeru who was still tying his laces, but as soon as he heard the voice of his brother he jumped up. The look on his face could be described as nothing less than pure terror. His teeth were bared and his eyes flashed at the sight of Yamato standing up to approach him. Picking up the pile of keys and change beside him Takeru jammed it all into his pocket and set himself into action, avoiding tripping over his undone shoelace. He dived at the apartment door.
"Takeru!"
Yamato roared seeing that his brother was trying to flee and was completely prepared to chase after him. He sprung up onto the balls of his bare feet and climbed over the back of the sofa, gripping at the corduroy with his hands set like claws to stop him from falling. The door had been wrenched open and the younger blonde was already sprinting in a wavy line towards the stairs as his hangover got the best of him. Over the jingling of his full pockets he could hear his older sibling's thudding footsteps hunting him down. He could hear that the other's footing was just as ungraceful as his own, a sign that told him that he might actually be able to successfully escape for the first time. He'd ever been able to outrun his older brother until today. When he reached the stairs he took the opportunity to create a larger distance. He held to the metal railings and leapt to the lower side of the winding staircase, feeling his knees almost break beneath him from the shock of his landing. Then without looking up to see Yamato at the top of the stairs he kept leaping over groups of stairs to get to the bottom.
In comparison to Takeru, Yamato looked at the stairs and saw less of an opportunity and more of a disadvantage. He didn't have the strength to do the same as Takeru. If he attempted to jump he'd probably break his neck when his knees rolled from beneath him. On the other hand, standing there was just allowing Takeru to get away. A pale hand took a firm grip on the winding metal by the stairs. As he jumped down the hand slid down the metal as his body moved, losing the control that he had over his jump. His foot nicked the bottom of the set of stairs and with a shout he was falling in the opposite direction that he wanted, his back falling against the stairs. He managed to prevent a severe injury by using his elbows to absorb most of the impact. But his loose neck forced his head backwards and it just about hit the top step before he pulled it back. For the second that his head felt numb after the impact he prayed that the injury wasn't too bad. Moments later the pain began to grow, like vines winding about his skull as the plant thrived and engulfed him. It was too much to even curse at. He just curled against the metal banisters and gripped the back of his head, hoping that pressure would relieve the pain. It was so overpowering that he could even feel his fingers tingle as the rest of his body numbed to make the pain that bit more intense.
"Takeru!"
He called in agony with a half sob. He was still gritting his teeth in anger, but the anger was slowly wearing down as the pain and fear overtook him at the thought of needing to go to hospital. He diligently crawled around on the stairs so to see where he'd head his head, only gasp in relief when he didn't see that he'd shed an blood. It faintly shocked him that there could be so much pain without the skin being broken, but he didn't dwell on it enough to hesitate. The sound of Takeru's leaps down the stairs hadn't ceased and he was no too far for Yamato to catch up to. Keeping his eyes shut tightly he sat up and tucked his head between his knees, feeling a spell of dizziness settle in the front of his mind.
"T-Takeru, I'm fucking serious! Get back here!"
He practically screamed and lifted his head to look down the set of stairs to search for the top of Takeru's head. The blonde mop was already on the last set of stairs towards the car park, ignoring his brother's cries for help and dashing out the door regretfully.
With a half repressed growl Yamato slammed his tight, bloodless fist into the step that he sat on, feeling the markings on it become engraved into the side of his palm from the force of the impact. The rattle of abused metal echoed down the now empty staircase to ring in his aching head.
"Mister Ishida, would you please keep it down!"
The old woman from the apartment next door nagged from her front door with her patched apron loose across the front of her. Yamato didn't even look back to her. He just sagged hid shoulders and waved her away, not caring that he was being rude. In an apartment a bit further down a young couple had opened the door without removing the chain to catch a glimpse of the drama that was happening in their building, while their dog barked at them. So much noise was only aggravating him further. If that dog didn't shut up and if that woman didn't go away then he'd end up doing something very out of character that he knew he'd regret.
With a claw gripping to the handrail he pulled himself into a hunched standing, keeping bent so not to jostle his head or release the vomit that he felt already building up in the top of his chest. He slammed the door once he felt the wooden floor of his apartment entrance and rushed to the window that overlooked the street to catch a glimpse of Takeru. But the younger man wasn't in sight; probably long gone by now. He didn't bother to call out blindly into the streets for him. He would have to face him sooner or later; whether it be of Takeru's own volition or having to hunt him down.
The sharp throb at the back of his head brought his mind back into gear, and he left the window to soothe the bruise. There were no frozen foods in the house so Yamato had to scrape off chunks of ice from the edges of the freezer and wrap them in a cloth. He held the cold, soaking material to the back of his head, feeling some of the melting ice run down his neck and into the back of his shirt that he still hadn't changed from the day before. As the wound began to numb he felt the prickling sensation on the bruise, like hot needles fucking holes into his skull. It wasn't as painful as the impact itself, but it was enough to feel weak in the knees.
He stumbled over to the table, applying more pressure to the wound in hopes that it would help, and dropped into the chair, making the legs creak and bend. He hissed at the cold and pain, bending his head forward so to save his back from getting any more wet. When he closed his eyes it felt like he was drunk, diving over a big hill and feeling his stomach lurch and jump.
It just wasn't fair. It felt like he was being skull fucked. His neck and back were all twisted and aching from sleeping on the floor. He was cold. He was tired. And to top this all off he was so fucking hungry it was unbearable. He stomach was not only empty but it had been wrung dry of absolutely anything that still lingered there.
There was still so much anger left in him. He wanted to punch someone or kick a hole in the wall. But if he couldn't even stand up how did he even hope to accomplish such a thing. He wanted the energy to pick a fight with someone off the street or at the very least trash the apartment. Not that it would make a difference to the terrible state that it was already in.
With renewed vigour, and more honest determination than he remembered having, he limped the the kitchen to grab the half full bag of bread and jug of water. He slammed both down on the table next to the makeshift ice pack and took his seat once more. He arranged a few slices of bread in front of him and the jug of water to look like some kind of prison dinner. His breathing was harsh and just looking at the few pale slices of food was already beginning to make him feel sick. He could already imagine the taste in his mouth, the doughy texture of moist bread. He slowly reached for the first slice with a heated scowl that probably should have turned the bread into toast. He tore off a piece of the bread with shaking hands and compressed the small square into a soft ball that he could quickly chew and swallow without too much of a problem.
He lifted it to his lips and parted them so to bare his teeth at the piece of food. With a hesitant growl he dropped it back onto the plate, feeling the sickness set in before he'd even tasted the fucking thing.
With a slam to his fist on the table he decided to use the same method as he did when he had stage fright at the caf
Get over yourself, and get the fuck on with it.
He popped the small ball of chewy bread in his mouth, not allowing it to linger before it was quickly swallowed. Before any kind of feeling set in he tore himself another corner of the bread and ate it just as quickly as the first. By the time he was tearing off a third piece he felt a tense pressure in his stomach and throat, sending the two mouthfuls back up north. Not bothering with getting a glass, Yamato grabbed the jug of water and brought the edge of it to his lips, throwing his head back. Half the contents spilt over the side of his mouth and onto his shirt and jeans. He felt the cold liquid soak through to his bare skin but continued to drain the clear contents of the jug despite this. And once it was empty he slowly lowered the heavy glass object onto the table and blankly stared at the wall opposite. With a weak sob he felt his stomach quieten and accept the food that had been given.
Taking advantage of the calm state of his body he quickly refilled the jug of water and sat back down to the rest of the food. He'd eaten a little more than half a slice of bread in just two, almost painless, bites. Things were going good so far.
This time he tore up two more slices into bite size pieces and arranged them for him to easily grab. Closing his eyes he inhaled deeply through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth. He tried to surprise his own body by snatching the first piece off the table and chewed it only enough to stop himself from choking on it. He didn't pause afterwards and just went straight onto the next piece, wanting to get it over and done with so he could get on with his day and hopefully not throw up halfway.
After about four or five pieces he blindly grabbed for the jug of water and repeated his actions from before, trying to wash down his insides that were trying to get back out. He could feel the little lumps of food trying to climb and crawl their way back up his throat through the torrents of water flooding the passageway. Yamato's desperate action were enough of a distraction to stop him from hearing the heavy open and close of the front door.
"Yamato? What're you doing?"
A strong yet strained voice came from the hallway where Mr Ishida was now dropping his briefcase to the floor and staring at his shaking son who was lowering a now empty jug from his lips.
"Shut up. Either go to bed, or go to work, Dad."
A croaky wine made it past the thin lips before Yamato's hands flew to cover his mouth, dropping the jug to the floor. Hearing the thick glass shatter across the tiles startled Yamato into standing. An action that he regretted instantly when he rushed over to the sink to lean over it. Keeping his breathing as steady as possible he held his mouth shout with his hands, trying to overpower the heaves that his body made towards the sink and the sting of stomach acid that was bubbling over the top of his throat and into his mouth. With every jerk of his stomach muscles he moaned pressed up against the insides of his tightly clenched lips.
"Son, are you ill? What's wrong?"
There was the sound of his father kicking his bag away from him and his shoe clad feet trotting over two Yamato, crunching the glass that he stepped on into small pieces that feel between the creases of the kitchen tiles. His intentions were obviously for the better sake of his son, to be the good father that he hoped he could be and help the poor man that was hunched over the sink. But as he got closer Yamato only choked at the sharp smell of vodka on the suit jacket that was pressing against his side.
"Do you need-"
As soon as he placed his arm around the bony shoulder Yamato roughly pushed him away and stumbled back.
"Get away from me! You're making it wor-"
Before the vomit dribbled over his lips Yamato tilted his head back and tried to swallow it. With a mouthful he fell to the sink and filled up a dirty glass that was in the sink with water. He shakily downed it and coughed into his shoulder as he refilled the glass. Hiroaki watched from a distance as his so had requested, but one foot was eagerly placed in front of him with the desire to rush to his aid. As Yamato choked and spluttered over the next mouthful of water that he'd downed, he began to fill it up again.
"Son, just let it out. You're going to make yourself more sick."
Yamato shook his head and coughed heavily into the sink, almost feeling his lungs coming up through his throat with the painful shots of air that were forced out of him. Even though it hurt to breathe, at the very least his stomach had finally decided to stop being a stubborn rebel and take the fucking food. He leant his elbows on the edge of the sink and felt his whole body undulate with the deep, regular breaths that he was trying to take. Now that he was calm he realised that his Dad had ignored his plea to stay back and was rubbing circles on his back while leaning against the sink beside him. But this time, the smell didn't bother him that much, so long as he kept making those soothing patterns across his back that were only disrupted by his raised spine that was starting to worry the old man. He may have been a bit drunk, but he still knew when something was wrong.
"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
Hiroaki didn't intend the question to sound accusing. He just wanted to generalise the question instead of deliberately asking 'what's wrong' because he knew Yamato would just reply with something dismissive as per usual. But Yamato who was, overly emotional enough to misinterpret this question, thought that his father meant to ask 'aren't you supposed to be at work making me money?'. So his response was obviously hostile.
"Shut the fuck up! Aren't you supposed to be at work? Too hung over are you? Well fuck off and go back to the bar, I'll give you your fucking money later, okay?"
He shouted directly into his father's sullen face who didn't even flinch as he watched his son have an outburst that was almost comparable to those during his hormonal stage. And when Yamato was finished he dropped to the floor with a few weary gasps, feeling the ache in his abdominal muscles after all of the painful spasms.
Hiroaki stared down at the top of the blonde head, seeing the pale scalp peeking between the light strands of hair. The bony shoulders beneath it rose and fell in perfect synch under laboured breaths. Just like he used to do when the emaciated man was once a healthy young boy, he bent down and hooked his arm around a much thinner waist. It felt like he was lifting nothing but bones when he carefully helped him to stand, keeping still when he noticed Yamato's wince at being jostled too soon after being so sick. And once he'd calmed his father helped him to his bed and drew the curtains so to darken the room. Yamato didn't protest. In his filthy shirt and jeans he just watched in bizarre interest as his father pulled the blankets up to his shoulders like he was tucking him in. He ignored the alcoholic breath in his face when his father whispered to him.
"Go to sleep, son."
He quietly advised and left the room, closing the door silently behind him. Curling into a tight ball Yamato obeyed his parent and allowed another deep sleep to take him.
Within the tattered and smeared remains of the Odaiba apartment, with strewn cans, smashed bottles, and tobacco leaves hiding the colour of the carpet, a loud voice reverberated in the dank spare bedroom.
"Taichi! Get up! You're helping me clean up this shit hole!"
"Huh? Why? Go 'way."
A grumble was thrown towards the open door before Taichi pulled the pillow to his face and turned onto his back. He was far too comfortable to listen to Shinji's chokes of disgust after he'd bared his naked front to the poor man. With his eyes still closed he felt a second pillow hit him in the chest.
"No. You made most of this mess you jackass. And put some fucking pants on, I don't want see your dick."
"Pants?"
He whispered incoherently, only now noticing the chilling breeze that he felt on the prickled skin of his exposed thighs and other areas. He removed the pillow from his face and, with blurry eyes, glanced down to see that yes, he was in fact messy and naked.
"Ah shit."
He tossed the pillow aside off the bed before rubbing at his eyes, clearing away the dust and grime that lingered in the corners after his exhausted sleep. The chalky, sickly taste was beginning to form in the back of his throat, thick enough to remain there no matter how he tried to swallow it. Blindly he reached a hand across the bed, expecting to feel a warm body like he usually did when he woke up. The sheets were cold now, but he could feel the groove on the pillow that told him that someone had fallen asleep next to him, with what he remembered to be a blonde head of hair. A frown formed as he looked at the empty side of the bed and he sat up to look around the room.
He knew where he was. He knew how he'd got there. And he remembered Yamato's face and a lot of drinks. Other than that, his mind was swiped clean and completely blank.
When he stood up he didn't feel much of a hangover, which was a clear sign that it wasn't just alcohol that he had helped himself to. Coughing at the dryness of his throat he stumbled to the door to see Shinji scooping empty cans into a plastic bag. His voice was hoarse dusty when he spoke.
"Where's Yama? Did he leave?"
Shinji didn't look at him and shook his head at the memory of the evening.
"Yeah he left. He came and went last night as soon as he saw you. Whatever you did you fucked him up."
"What d'ya mean?"
With his free hand on his hip Shinji turned to Taichi, only to flinch and cover his eyes as soon as they made eye contact.
"I told you to get some fucking pants on! And take a shower, that room stinks."
With a droopy eyed nod Taichi scraped his hands across the wall as he made his way to the bathroom to clean up. He hadn't showered in two days so he obviously needed it.
He kept his eyes lazily closed as he blindly went through the motion of turning on the shower and checking the temperature before rinsing out the taste that lingered in his mouth. He spat out the foamy mix of saliva and toothpaste in the sink, watching the white and blue froth circle the drain. Scratching his greasy scalp with an exaggerated yawn he looked in the mirror above the sink as he woke up enough to see more than just colourful blurs. The first thing that caught his attention in the waist high mirror was the little pink mark that flashed from the corner of his eye as he scanned his chest. Shallow indents of teeth bordered the bruise, which made the sleepy grimace curl into a smile at the sight.
Stepping into the shower he allowed the water to soak him, content just standing under the spray and absorbing the warmth. Brushing a hand over his shoulder he winced, accidentally touching a bruise that had yet to form completely. That only made his smile widen, knowing that there were probably three or four similar bruises beside it from pale, tensed fingers that had held to his shoulders with such brutality. He couldn't remember much about how he got the marks. The evening and part of the day before was mostly just pieces of odd conversations, tastes of different alcohols and a few features from different people's face.
Only patches of blonde hair, pale legs, and hazy blue eyes were what he could recall of being in the bedroom.
Yamato.
It must have been Yama. He remembered seeing him in the crowd of people and being so stunned to see him at the same time as touched. He'd come to apologise, tell him he loved him and that he didn't mean what he'd said. At least, that's what he remembered thinking at the time. He couldn't remember Yama telling him the real reason he'd turned up at Shinji's. They must have made up, because he remembered doing shots with him on the sofa, being too drunk to know why he was laughing. There weren't any more clear pictures of what happened from then on. Yamato had wandered off somewhere and he'd had to search for him all over until he'd found him in the bedroom, almost passed out on the bed.
Taichi frowned a bit, regretting that he couldn't remember anything about their love making. Usually after a solved argument they had the best sex; passionate and expressive at the same time as being desperate and animalistic. Usually he'd end up with scratches, hickeys and bruises all over him, leaving him almost as sore as Yamato.
With a dismissive laugh Taichi began to wash himself. It didn't matter if he couldn't remember that part. They could easily do it all over again after Yamato came home from work.
After drying himself and dashing past Shinji in towel to the bedroom, he stole some of the other man's clothes and went back into the living room. Shinji was sitting on the sofa with a bowl of cereal on his lap. When he looked back to the brunette he was relieved to see that he was no longer naked. But there was something that stood out on the tanned face of the man that stood in the doorway.
"Did Yamato do that to you?"
Shinji enquired, swallowing half a mouthful of cereal before he spoke. When Taichi gave a questioning glance Shinji gestured to Taichi's cheek where a small bruise was forming. Taichi didn't know that it existed until he touched it and felt it ache when he applied pressure to it. He didn't remember being hit, and it wasn't the kind of wound that a man would receive in the throws of passion. He turned to the nearest mirror that hung on the opposite side of the living room and turned his face to get a better look. He hadn't noticed the dark bruise in the bathroom mirror, but now in the light it definitely looked like someone had intended to hurt him. He circled the small mark with his finger, trying to think if he'd come across any conflict during the evening. That's when he remembered waking up in the bedroom. It definitely wasn't morning because he could still hear the music next door. He could recall the lights being turned on and Yamato missing from the bed. Then after calling out to him he felt something hit his face. He was too numb and tired to feel the pain, but he remembered the force knocking him back onto the bed.
"Ah, I don't know. I don't remember much. It could have been him."
He spoke more to himself than to Shinji, but the other man answered with a laugh anyway.
"I think Yami's the only one with enough balls to hit you when you're that wasted. I had to ask him to make sure you were still alive."
Taichi hissed in embarrassment and sat next to Shinji, grabbing a handful of cereal from the box on the coffee table.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Yama really upset me and I was just desperate to forget about it."
He intended to end the conversation there, but with Shinji leaning towards him with a curious smirk he felt obliged to continue. He leaned back and emptied the cereal in his hand into his mouth before talking.
"He told me that he'd break up with me if I fucked around again."
"Really? And he was serious?"
Shinji put the bowl onto the coffee table to give full attention to what Taichi was saying. The concept of Yamato and Taichi not being together seemed impossible. They came as an inseparable package; together they practically formed one person.
Taichi nodded sadly and massaged the back of his neck, feeling the deep ache that he'd earned from passing out in an awkward position. He remembered Yamato's steely eyes when he'd told him off. There were no tears or screams. Just that dead tone of voice that told him that his blonde angel had the potential of being a demon.
"Looked like he was. But I don't need to find out anyway, I've learned my lesson."
With a nod he put his hands behind his head and leant into the sofa, trying to will away the slight sickness he could feel that came from drinking for two days straight. Suddenly Daisuke's worried face came to mind from before the party. He didn't look too happy to be there. He turned his head to Shinji who was relaxing next to him.
"Hey, Daisuke was here too wasn't he?"
"Yep. He stayed outside most of the time though. He wasn't really having fun. I feel kinda bad for him."
"Do you know if he got home okay?"
"Yeah, I think Yamato took him and Takeru home."
"Takeru? He was here?"
He couldn't really recall seeing the younger blonde man, only Yamato. Shinji flicked the side of his head and laughed in his throat.
"How could you not remember that? You spent most of the night leaning on each other."
After drawing nothing but blank cards concerning Takeru, Taichi decided to give up. Pulling at the tight shirt of Shinji's that he wore he stood up, avoiding tripping over the coffee table that was such an awkward height. A smile pulled at his cheeks at the thought of visiting Yamato after his work.
"Oh well. It's over now, anyway. I have to sober up and thank Yama for the bruises. Where's my bag?"
"It's in the bedroom somewhere. Could you put the sheets in the laundry while your in there?"
With a nod Taichi limbed over Shinji's outstretched legs and went to the guest bedroom that he'd collapsed in. As he approached he began to understand why Shinji had told him to shower. The room reeked of all sorts of bodily fluids, and the state didn't look much better either. The bedsheets were tossed to the floor, the side table had been knocked over and the contents of his own bag had been strewn around the room. It would be like a treasure hunt trying to find anything.
He piled the sheets by the door, cringing when he felt a wet patch on them, but feeling slightly happy at the same time. Along with his phone and wallet he dug out several half full beer bottles from under the bed which proceeded to mess up the clean clothes that he'd only just put on. At least the cool wetness of the beer soaked shirt had woken him up a bit more, making it easier to finish the task before he could change clothes again.
He stripped the rest of the bed and piled the sheets by the door, he found most of the contents of his bag and zipped it up, he picked up the filthy clothes that he'd worn the day before and he even cleaned out the cans and bottles that he found. But not before having a quick swig of a few of the bottles of course. When he swung his bag over his shoulder he surveyed the room roughly to see if anything else was wrong. The bedside table was still tipped on it's side. With a huff of annoyance Taichi dropped his bag by the door and stomped over to the table. The lamp that had stood on it was less than salvageable, the base smashed into several pieces and the shade torn. He kicked the pieces aside, being careful not to cut his bare feet, and lifted the table back up to its original place.
And then that's when he saw them.
They had been blocked by the upturned table, but now they lay bright and obvious against the grey carpet. A pair of baby pink boxers with a slight stain on the front of them.
Taichi didn't really want to touch them. They definitely weren't Yama's. Taichi had very personally every single pair of underwear that Yamato owned, and all of them were either blue, white or black. He wasn't one to wear novelty colours or patterns. So then, how did these soiled boxers find their way into the room when no one other than himself had slept in there.
"Oi, Shinji? Do you own a pair of pink boxers?"
He called and rushed to the door. Shinji looked over the back of the sofa in a daze, having been falling asleep again while Taichi had been packing up.
"No. Why?"
He grumbled and rubbed his eyes, ignoring the furrowed brows of Taichi as he looked back into the bedroom to the offending item in question. He walked over to them again, this time bravely picking them up and pushing aside his disgust. Sitting on the bed he took a closer looking, turning them over, looking at the inside, testing the elastic. Now that he looked at them properly, he agreed with himself even more strongly that they definitely weren't Yama's. They were a little too big to fit on those pale, slim hips and the label on the inside told him that they obviously weren't cheap. Also, other than the stain on the front, they looked clean, which meant they'd probably been left there recently; most probably during the party the night before. But...only he and Yama had been in this room. He was sure of it. His memory may have been hazy but he was completely certain that there were only two people in the room and that was him and Yama.
That is...unless...
He scrunched up the insulting underwear in his hand and felt a shiver of fear run through him.
"What time did Yama leave again?"
He called out to Shinji and stood up to lean against the door frame. Shinji was splayed out across the sofa with his legs off, trying the sleep off the rest of the alcohol that was in his system. With his eyes still closed he answered Taichi, scratching his cheek with a yawn.
"Pretty much as soon as he arrived. Around three or something."
"Three? He was there earlier right? I remember talking to him and drinking and-"
"Taichi, he came here at three looking for Takeru, found him with you, and left with him and Daisuke. He didn't drink anything."
No...no, that wasn't right. He could clearly see Yama's face in his mind, laughing at nothing and tipping back a glass of tequila like it was nothing. His blue eyes unfocused and his hair tossed all over the place, looking completely different from its usual kept state. He'd belted out laughter and leant against his shoulder, being more boisterous that Taichi could ever remember. But he didn't mind at the time, only concerned that Yamato was finally having some fun with him after being cooped up at work.
"But...I remember..."
He mumbled, wringing the boxers in his hand unconsciously, ignoring the fact that they were dirty and without a known owner. He began to retrace the evening, saying out loud what he could remember and keeping his stare blank and empty towards the back of the sofa.
"Yama and I did some shots together, and then he went-"
"Yamato wasn't here, Taichi."
Shinji interrupted, getting annoyed that Taichi wasn't listening to him. His eyes were closed, unseeing to the look of shock on Taichi's face and the tanned hands that gripped tighter to the pink fabric, tearing a few holes in it.
"You did shots with Takeru."
Taichi hands went slack instantly, the ripped boxers dropping to the floor with a quiet sound of heavy cloth hitting carpet. He felt his bottom lip quiver and his eyes dry at being held open so wide for so long.
"Take-...I...with Takeru?"
His voice was as high as it could go, being a half whisper and a squeak. A hiccup followed and a hand flew up to his mouth before he could scream.
The angelic face of a drunk Yamato leaning against his shoulder slowly faded and cropped blonde hair and eyes of a much lighter blue took place instead.
The lithe, seductive figure of Yamato wandering into the bedroom morphed to become the drunk stumble of a shorter and thicker build, with no such familiar grace in his step.
The sharp face that he remembered being contorted in pleasure beneath him as he thrust into an unbearably tight heat was pushed out of his mind, being dismissed as unreal. Now, he could only recall the uncertain daze in the light blue eyes beneath him, too numb and distant to feel any pleasure from Taichi's ministrations.
And the feel of tight muscles that clenched around him became a tainted pleasure once he realised that they had been virginal until he had invaded them against the other's will or knowledge.
Hearing the squeaks and gasps coming from Taichi, Shinji sat up to loo at him. The dark, tall man was slumped against the door frame, lowering himself to the floor. His hands were over his mouth, muffling the wheezing breaths that were thick and uneven. His eyes were clenched shut in agony against the images in his mind.
Realisation dawned on Shinji once he caught sight of the crumpled, pink boxers that lay at Taichi's feet. Yamato's seething expression as he dragged an unsteady Takeru towards the door suddenly made a lot more sense now than when he'd witnessed it the night before.
"Oh, shit Taichi!"
He shouted and leapt over the arm of the sofa to aid Taichi who was hunched over his knees on the floor. Taichi wasn't breathing normally. Every intake of breath was a short, sharp hiss, and every release was a sob.
"I think I'm gonna be sick."
He heard the man whimper quietly through his hands as he saw the large frame of Taichi spasm and choke forward. He heard the long agonising whine of the man before he fell to the side, hitting the dead weight of his head on the wooden floor as consciousness swiftly left him.
My gosh, I can't really recall writing a chapter as long as this one in such a short time. It's even too long for me to have the patience to proof read it. Right now I just want to get these hapters done and published so that I can get on with the really good ideas that I have in mind.
Normally, I don't really like people adding song lyrics into their fiction because it kind of 'cheapens it' if that makes any sense. It's adding other people's material in attempt to add to the effect. But, I just had to mention this song. I went to a proper blues bar a while ago, and this one guy did such an amazing cover. I thought to myself 'that is the kinda music that suits my depiction of Yamato'. His voice was smoky but strong and his guitar playing was really great. He made a really complicated rendition of the chords. I then added the harmonica because I wanted to keep some of Yamato's original musical talents in the fiction, harmonica being his specialty. It also suits the Bob Dylan style of the song.
Anywho, thankyou so much to everyone that reviewed on the last chapter. It made me so happy and all the comments spurred me to be more dedicated to my writing than I have been in the past. I tend to make promises that I can't keep in my author's note, so for now I'll just generally say that I'm gonna try my hardest to complete this fiction to my highest ability. So, hopefully you can look forward to steamy drama in the near future.
Please, keep reviews coming. It only takes a second to write me a quick message. I really want to know what you think so far and what you think I need to work on. All criticism is welcome.
Bed. Of. Nails. And. Sandpaper
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