Chapter Text
In the flow, Itoshi Sae’s body moves on its own. Engrossed in the action, his arms sway back and forth in beat, hitting the snare, the crash, his leg on the bass. His heartbeat thrums in his throat, his pulse running quick and hot, and he can’t feel the way that his body struggles to maintain a tempo set by none other than himself, too caught up in the sensation, swallowed whole by noise produced as a result of his own strain. He’s centered, hyped up on adrenaline, this riff is the only worry in his life, his sole aspiration.
The world is a blur, beige walls painted crimson, the edges of his vision black, he’s drowning in what seems to be his own blood and guts.
And then that god-like endurance, it passes in the blink of an eye. His sweat drips like candle wax off of his sickly skin, his arms like the branches of a tree, suddenly so rigid and heavy. He’s brought back to the present: not at a show, not accompanied by vocalists or guitar, he’s all alone in a studio in LA. When his foot halts over the pedal and his wrists go slack at his side, what ensues is simply silence.
In a passing rush of anger targeted at himself, the reason of which he wishes he knew, he throws his mallets across the room and they hit the panel of enforced glass which separates the recording space from the monitor controls, behind which his manager stands, gawking at him.
Why does he entertain these sorts of bastards, really?
For half a year now, he hasn't performed on stage alongside anyone worthwhile, and yet his old albums are apparently still making rounds on the Japanese radio channels. If not for the passion he’d had when he was young, he’d never be able to finance such a long and severe burnout. If not for his ancient promise as a star, yet to be forgotten, maybe all of these old managers would have already left, busy tending to young talents rather than another unpleasant backup drummer. Sometimes he wishes that they would, he wishes he could just be left alone, but then, he can't live without this… he doesn't know any better.
“Itoshi-San,” his producer calls him through the microphone, “that was purrr-fect!”
When Sae rises, he sways just slightly over the drumset, his vision blurring. He's still catching his breath, sweat dripping down his front. He's so tired. He flickers a glare at his manager as he slips through the glass doors.
Those grubby hands find purchase in his collar, rubbing at his neck, that uninvited touch which he would never usually tolerate.
“Good work, that's track five done, innit?”
And Sae lowly growls: “it's the section from part four, you useless fuck.”
Nobody here cares about him, not his work. They let him shit out unsupervised drum solos, then sell it to sample companies and whatnot, wherever they can find the most money. They don't hold regard to all of his effort, his talent, his passion and so little by little, they all disappear.
Fuck, his heart's still beating so strongly, so deep within his chest, it feels trapped there, the weight slowing it down to a frankly uncomfortable speed. This isn't the tempo he needs to live, this isn't the rhythm he likes to hear.
“Part four then,” his manager says, turning to the man in front of the double monitor. “Jot that down, don't you!”
The technician murmurs something in English, but Sae ignores it. He pulls his sweatshirt over his bare chest and tries to maintain his balance when it all goes blank again. The ants are eating away at his eyesight, threatening to take his independence.
“Call me a cab,” he says over his shoulder as he wobbles towards the exit. He just needs to wash his face, then he'll be fine. He doesn't wait for an answer.
The hallway seems neverending, it varies in depth every few steps, widens and then narrows, the length between himself and the lift testing his patience. He just needs a coffee and a rest, he needs a good bout of silence or maybe a radio station that knows their way around classical jazz. It's odd, he's always been a rock person, but he can't hear it anymore, it reminds him of his early career back in Japan…
Ah, damnit, he's so dizzy that he might as well be drunk. He doesn't know what's gotten hold of him, but he's afraid. He's never wanted to die, but if it happens, it better not be in the hallway of a studio out in Los Angeles. He can't be found by his managers, that's utterly depressing. He's only ever truly content with the idea of it all ending on stage, when he's so engrossed in his drumming that he forgets about life. And let it be then, when he seizes up, breathes his last breath, surrounded by cheers and amplified guitar.
Don't let me die so far from home, he thinks, which is weird, he hates home. His head suddenly feels so light, his hands so cool after throbbing for ages, his brain fogged. It's quite amazing, really. He easily lets himself fall to his knees, like he's always been afraid of doing: causing a scene, cracking that facade of unnerve and excellence. And on the floor, he writhes a bit before halting completely, his pulse as calm as the tide beneath moonlight, so melodic, stars in his eyes. He wishes it were like this more often, so quiet, so peaceful.
∞
He wakes up in a hospital, groans as he lifts his head from his pillow. He doesn't even want to know what the doctors have to say, he's fully aware of this awful situation he's been putting himself in. Immersed in excellence, there's no time to eat, or more precisely, no reason to. So lonely, he has nobody to share meals with. And when a smoke can satiate his hunger, why should he? He can't stand the stares at the cafés and restaurants– they know he doesn't belong here, he's not one of them. He's been overworking himself, every inch of his being sore. His arms throb when he's off, the repetitive motion of drumming inflaming the cartilage in his wrists and elbows. His back aches, so do his calves, and when he cranes his neck it sends shooting pins down his spine. Every riff he creates is like a belt of high intensity sport on a body he doesn't allow to rest.
So, it's no wonder he's ended up collapsing, it happens at least once a week, it just usually occurs when he's already lying down.
His manager is reading a magazine, but when he catches Sae's initial movements, he shuts it abruptly. Sae gestures towards the jug beside his bed and doesn't murmur a thank-you when he's handed a plastic cup of water, it crinkles in his hands.
“You're getting sent back to Japan, Itoshi-San, say goodbye to LA.”
It takes a moment for those words to register, and then Sae jolts upright, his face tense, his head is fucking aching.
“Says who?” he asks crudely, it's his career, not theirs. He was too young to understand what it meant to leave his homeland, but he's not that innocent anymore, he won't be hauled around anywhere he doesn't want to go. Japan, he snickers crudely, he's so sick of being reminded of that place. They'd never appreciated him when he was around, nor does he appreciate them now. Good for nothing conservative labels keen on celebrating trash music.
“Look at you! you ain't staying here in this state, I can tell ya that much.”
“I'm fine,” Sae hisses defensively. He's fine apart from his constant migraines and aching bones, he's fine if you ignore his self-sabotaging habits, he'll survive long enough to finish his next album at least and then fuck knows… maybe he doesn't need to stick around afterwards, this life was becoming rather boring for him anyway.
“Well, I'll leave the doctor's notes between you n’ your lawyer if you wanna pick it up with ‘im, but the gist of it is that yer outta insurance, you dumb boy.”
And god, he'd throttle this fucking guy if he could, he'd wrap his hands around that thick neck and squeeze hard, shake so strongly that the tiny brain within that skull creates a symphony. He's aware of how stupid he is, but he quite likes that, it feels like the only thing he can control. Dumb himself down, control his meals and black out on alcohol every night. Nobody else gets to tell him what he is and isn't, nobody else gets to call him an idiot.
Dipshit insurance, doesn't he have the budget to find a new service, maybe one that'll actually cover him?
“We're flying today. Take it or leave it, but I'm out, I gotta see my girls. If you stay here then it's over, I'm terminating your contract.”
Fu-uck.
“And if I go you'll push it through?”
“You have my word, Itoshi Sae.” That bastard swears. “Get me an album by next year and I'll sign it the next day.”
Sae crumples the empty cup in his hand and furrows his brows impossibly closer together, pinning that flashing pain right between his eyes. He hasn't been looking at his manager, he stares out of the window instead at the clear blue skies. Japan? What inspiration can he possibly get from going back there? He can't work on empty and he's sick of creating sad ballads about a profound hatred for his homeland. Consumers don't take well to criticism, they don't enjoy being called boring or shitty or talentless. He's got no equals there anymore, they all hate his guts.
“How long till we can fly out again?” to America, to Europe, god, he'll go anywhere.
“That depends on your performance,” his manager answers. It’s code for ‘when you get better,’ which is code for ‘when your career is officially over.’
Maybe he can speedrun his way through a life ending scandal or maybe he can climb the ladder of success in double steps. He doesn't care at this point, he's too tired to give a fuck about how he truly feels. Still, he can't ignore the gross, bitter sensation deep inside, as if he's swallowed a rotten fruit, the cloud of mould exploding like mustard gas within his stomach. He's disappointed himself again.
He rests back against the hospital bed.
∞
“Have a gum… it's mint, Itoshi-Kun, it's supposed to help with motion sickness,” Sae glares at the strip of chewing gum being offered to him like it could be poison, like it'll combust the moment he touches it. Does he seem that weak? He's survived all alone in America, he's flown halfway around the world, he'd begun his adventure as a child for goodness sakes.
A majority of the time he's destined to spend in this rattling aircraft has already passed anyway.
“I don't want a bloody mint,” he just growls back, crossing his arms. The screen on the seat in front of him shows the flight route. He refuses to turn it off, or as he'd been told, to find a movie and relax. He can't stand the thought of sitting through a film, he hasn't focused on anything other than his compositional notes for ages, and when he's feeling stressed, anything that won't further him in life feels irrelevant to his one track mind. If he tries hard enough, he can understand the characters, but they will forever be meaningless: Some fictional idiots living the high life, they don't interest him, he just envies them.
He flips back over again, hugging the thin blanket provided by the airline, tugging a dark mask over his eyes. Perhaps if he sleeps now, he won't have to try as hard when he gets back into the uninviting Japanese atmosphere.
He nods off and when he comes to, a measly hour has passed, but that's enough, his trip is coming to an end. He glances over at his manager, teary-eyed over some romance movie that has been playing for what feels like ages, then back at the navy clouds which surrounds their aircraft. It must be nice to cry so easily, he thinks– if he really had to, he could squeeze a tear out of his emerald green eyes, but it wouldn't be sincere. Perhaps he's grown too resilient for such silly things, maybe that's a good thing. The shuttle looks to be sinking, it has begun its descent within the midnight sky.
The buckle monitors illuminate the dark interior of the plane alongside a high pitched beep.
“Prepare for landing,” the pilot announces.
He doesn't, he can't. He's not ready for any of this, he tries as hard as he can to ignore that incessant anxiety eating away at him. He grips the armrest, his knuckles turning white, this has always been his least favourite part. He'd read once that a majority of crashes take place at takeoff or in landing and that was enough to discourage him from finding relief in the procedure. He allows himself to become immersed in the music, his own music, not focusing on the faults and the jittering drums at times, the clearly simulated guitar notes. His lashes brush across his cheeks as his eyes shut once more, brows furrowed just slightly. The pressure begins to build up in his brain, alongside the small-enough amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Prepare for landing, that line repeats in his mind. How long has it been since he'd stepped foot in Japan? He reminisces in the memories he has of flying as a child. Long, endless trips across continents.
Prepare for landing, everything there will be the same as it has always been: Trains packed full like meat trucks, drunk workmen not quite ready to meet their families and play house, the smell of fried goods and old jazz music encompassing old Izakayas. What might happen that he can't expect? He hates the place.
Their flight took fourteen hours, when it should have been fifteen, the airport is practically empty when they arrive, in the dead of night welcomed only by closed stores and tired security guards. He says very little to his manager during the time they spend standing alone, playing with their luggage and passports; he'd brought barely anything with him to America, lost even more of it while he was away. There was nothing he could gain other than experience: Nonsense memories, worthless souvenirs of American football and magnets with curvy women in scandalous outfits on them. It's safe to say that not much could quite encompass what his trip away has been like. Lonely? Endless? And so he's given up on gaining a material representative of such matters. All of his possessions fit into one sleazy check-in suitcase and weigh approximately thirty kilograms. Not even musical instruments take up space, he rents them out rather than keeping his own.
He buys a bottle of water from the only open supermarket in the exit terminal, it tastes of home. Then he drives round in a cab he won't be paying for alongside a fifty or something manager he can't care less about, but who thinks he does– thinks he'd want to know about the stupid film playing on his private television throughout the whole flight. Every so often, Sae rolls his eyes at the expected plot developments being explained to him. Man meets woman, they get stuck together in some absurd twist of fate. It stops sooner or later, when the vehicle halts on the curb by a street he can faintly recall. He lifts his head off of the palm of his hand, a subtle, unpleasant pin-prick sensation running through the back of his brain.
Are you ready? He'd have asked himself perhaps a few years back, but he no longer has that hope like before, can't hype himself up the way he used to. He'll always be ready, and simultaneously, never, for what can possibly take place to make him feel something new? What can break that spell of repetition cast on his life at such a young age? Who is he doing this all for?
∞
Himself. He's doing it for himself, all of it, he tries as hard to ruin everything he'd built when he was younger and then mourns the result of his own effort. This neverending pattern of self-sabotage: if only he'd treated himself better, if only he'd even attempted to escape it, he wouldn't be forced back to a homeland for which he bears only hatred.
He doesn't want to enter that apartment complex which he knows has gathered dust, so he throws his keys towards the asshole managing him and escapes while he can. In the end, rather than resting, Itoshi finds himself headed through the noisy streets of Harajuku, a place he knows all too well. Every career begins there, believe it or not, every subpar Japanese artist with enough hope to try and create anything better than the usual trash you hear on the radio starts off in the alternative bars and clubs. And at dawn, the sun not having broken over the city just yet, the sky pale and clear, starless, he slips in through the guarded doors and hides away below ground.
Cradling a glass of Black-Russian shaken vodka, Sae watches the dimmed lights flicker over bottle labels and shiny mixing utensils. It's too late for anyone real to play, too early for the bar to invite proper guests in, and he's surprised that this place is even open, the five or so drunkards still accompanying him are all knocked out.
What shocks him the most though, is when that empty podium flickers back to life, welcoming a new live show on. The only person to notice apart from him is the bartender, but he doesn't offer a cheer. Asshole, Sae thinks as he winds around and he doesn't know why he's feeling generous enough to act like he cares about anything other than getting plastered, but he does. He looks towards the stage, a blur of magenta and purple all he can make out between the light floaters masking his vision.
The crackle of an amplifier signifies the beginning of a show, the initial fretting of an electric guitar pulling him in from across the room. And it's not Van Halen or Hendrix, not perfect by any means, but it's raw and destructive and original in a world of cheap imitations and ripoffs. Sharp and loud and repetitive, Sae finds himself fixating on what he's witnessing for the longest time: Slender fingers working over the neck of an instrument, black-painted nails striking the strings, nearly dancing over the numerous active Pickups. That wonderful noise vibrates up Sae's throat, currents running through the back of his brain, massaging his tender and inflamed cells in the best way. He can't help but be turned on by this all, sheer talent, god, he holds his warming face and rests it in the palms of his hands, elbows leaning on the countertop.
He jolts up when the music ends, yearns for more, focusing back on the scene. What has it been? Eight minutes? That feels like nothing.
“This was Shidou Ryusei,” someone murmurs. It takes Sae a moment to realise that it's coming from the performer himself, on which his eyes transfix. Considering he's the only true audience, it shouldn't surprise him when that mysterious man looks straight back at him, a small smile playing on his lips. Sae doesn't dare glance away. He's beautiful, he thinks, otherworldly: pinprick pupils beneath fluttering blonde eyelashes, sharp eyes, dark and slightly smudged eyeliner thickly bordering them.
Fuck! Sae feels his stomach churn, butterflies flowing all the way through him. That man, Shidou, winks at him before disappearing behind the tiny stage's curtains, leaving him all alone with the flurry of emotions unwinding within his veins. Where's the sadness he's supposed to be plagued by, returning to a life in a country which he hates? Where are his worries? He's meant to create something he doesn't know he has within him. He can feel none of it, however… rather so, he feels hopeful, daring. Maybe there's something, someone worthwhile waiting for him in Japan after all.