Chapter Text
“At times like these, even if it's by force, it's best to turn it into music.”
Takaoka's words stirred Kazushi's hands towards his keyboard once again, double taking the glassdoor to make sure no one would investigate the warm light emanating from the studio. It was dead at night, even Fujitani was asleep, still he prayed for him not to get a stroke of genius and come towards the only sanctum Kazushi had left.
Should've bought that stupid amulet at the temple, he lamented. Even if deep down he knew that would have not changed anything, but that useless hope enchanted his fingers to compose a flurry of beams to intertwine into the main melody. He'd been writing nothing but somber quarters, the ones you mindlessly ponder against the keys while feeling sour. Sometimes, he would stare at the memory of Akane's eyes gleaming his way and the notes would drag a little—enough to make you recognize that bittersweet sadness. But tonight Kazushi felt restless, so his notes reflected that, and thus a brace with the mania of a heartache was subjugated to the weeping piano sample of his trustworthy DAW.
The song was sounding as pathetic as he was; scouring digital instruments to morph the new layer into something clear, peaceful with a slight ring of joy, but an Allegro was too on the nose for his liking. The synthesizer he used for the melody later turned into Play Out Loud stared at him with longing—neglected and tossed aside after being mangled and abandoned in favour of Saijo's intrepid drumming. No matter how fast the tempo, it always added a bit of whimsy to his partitures. He clicked and waited for the pop-up screen to finish rendering. Dark brown eyes stung through his “prescription” glasses, the blue light filter not working its charm anymore, couldn't compete with the four hours of bedtime procrastination and the desire to cry one or two times too close to comfort.
With a long sigh, his feet shuffled his wool loafers to the kitchen, taking the last coffee filter to brew drip coffee into his usual mug, trying to ignore how closer Akane's and Naoki's mugs had become. It was his mug that lent company to Saijo's, the latest addition to the shelf; He might have picked it in a hurry on the final recording session of Matrix passing by a bazaar, yes, but the bleeding heart motif was befitting for what he thought of her at the time—naively wearing her emotions on her sleeve, always pouring them to Fujitani since her first day.
His past self served him the most insulting piece of mockery without realizing, too confident in his unwavering solitude would never falter. It had been a while since he couldn't compose without the upbeat rhythm of Akane's words and he confessed it, even atoned how beautifully she played the drums, but what could've he done? When those bubbling emotions disrupted as much as Akane tiptoeing for her mug on the higher shelf of the cupboard. Arrangement Kazushi always made sure to corroborate after Sho placed all the washed dishes in place. It was always her mug next to the favorite cup he brought from his apartment before Fujitani, whose white, generic pair stood with Takaoka's in a corner, somehow afraid of being misused by the two youngest. Nowadays, Kazushi's mug was shunned to watch the world from above, the other three nestling in the nook of the bottom shelf.
Kazushi drank lukewarm, oversteeped coffee that night, taking the piece of pottery with him to ease its loneliness. The alchemized track waiting for the headphones to grab his ears and spectate the wonders of his own making. Something was amiss, though, he took a sip for the bitterness to irk him to focus.
The refrain consisted of two quarters, silence, then a full note, rinse and repeat. Redundant and uninspiring. He rushed to the keyboard, nearly knocking the mug in the process to delete that part and add some variety, creating a new track before hitting play on the interface. The melody started solemn, on Adagio, until the stark silence cued him to work his magic on the keys, upping the tempo by four scales as the synthesizer kicked in with a Presto which transported Kazushi back when he played his own rendition of For Elise, envisioning Akane standing in his peripheral vision and looking at him with wonder one last time.
Only for it not to be a juxtaposition of reality and imagination anymore, Akane in the flesh was standing behind him. Kazushi almost ejected from the stool like a rocket flying into space.
“Saijo! How long have you been here?!” He wanted to yell, but the idea of waking the others up and amplifying his audience to three muffled his scream to a whisper loud enough for her to hear.
“Sorry! I couldn't sleep and wanted to practice. I didn't expect you to be up.” Her shoulders shrunk, then slumped to join her hands, Kazushi took notice of the bandaids wrapped around her fingers like jewellery, they were a few days old and were close to fall of from the lack of adhesive, “I-I'll go–”
“Don't.” he cut the sentence off, “You can stay, your drums won't bother me with my headphones.” He turned his back, waiting—wanting—for her to stay or at least spare himself of seeing her cross the glassdoor back to Fujitani's bedroom, “There's coffee in the press by the way.”
The shuffling and creaking of her stool brought life back to him. Retrieving his mind back to the monitor screen, the comforting pressure of the headphone cushions soothing his racing mind; maybe drifting off to the infinity of the cosmos didn't seem that bad.
But it would be a lonely existence, wouldn't it? The idea of Akane's voice turning into a vague memory churned his heart, the feeling wrapped his torso with the gentleness of the strings of a violin, like Saijo's distant patting of her snare.
And so, Kazushi selected a violin soundbite to sample. Rocking back and forth a cluster of notes with his right hand, and a mumbling of eighth notes in his left one, staggering whole notes with each middle finger to make the dialogue between the two compasses more dramatic. Each one engulfed the other at times in pure conflict, his neck started to snap at how nasty the argument was turning into, lending a listening ear to the wounded higher notes in the end until they ran out of breath.
The silence from Akane's part alarmed him, and the soft clapping confirmed his worst fear.
“That sounded amazing, Sakamoto!”
Well, fuck, taking the next spaceship to the starts was a great idea after all.
Kazushi gyrated on his orbit with the stiffness of a rusty cog.
“Thanks.”
He skimmed the web for a headset with a construction worker's level of sound cancellation. The pursuit was unsuccessful.
⁂
Kazushi slept virtually nothing in order to make a run for a box of band-aids at the drugstore down his street, tossing them by Akane's floor tom where she sat barefoot behind her instrument.
“Change them before we begin, the last thing we need are your fingers falling off from dirty bandages.” sounded too caring, “Plus, I bet they smell, too.” Yeah, that was better.
Of course the jab floated across her head, “Thank you! You're so kind.”
“Shut up.” His eyes were glued to the keyboard to avoid taking in the complicity of dark circles from staying up until sunrise the night before.
Sho spectated everything from the other side of the room, Naoki was nowhere to be seen. It had been like that for five consecutive days; Tenblank was officially on hiatus for a while, even though rehearsal sessions were held once a month to keep everyone's spirits up and to get back on track as soon as Naoki's Temozolomide gave him a rest. Everyone knew he could walk through the door at any moment and announce they were going on a world tour in a couple of hours.
But he weakly pushed the door open, Sho was about to drop Midori onto the floor to catch him, Akane surpassed him by proximity.
“Naoki, is something wrong?” she grabbed him by the elbows, her stature leaving his sunken cheekbones and half-lidded eyes to see.
“I want to see how well Tenblank is putting up without me.” He softened the statement with a thin smile.
“But stay away from the instruments,” Sho warned him, “or the paper. I swear if I see you lay a finger on any of them, I'll drag you back to your room.”
“Then I'll sing.”
“And I'll tape your mouth shut.”
Naoki took a tempting step forward, waiting for Akane to guide him to the center of the room, where he liked to sit in his natural habitat of computers, wafers and instruments, a blanket and a pillow each member took turns to fluff and dust off sometimes more than once a day, as if to transmute his soul from his bed to the studio for a steady recovery. Maybe they accidentally ended up conjuring a summoning circle for the Amadeus of Rock and he came back too early. Yet, admittedly, it was a new record for the musician to rest by means that didn't involve him and an ambulance, and Sho was grateful for that.
Kazushi felt Fujitani's gaze ruminate over him, taking every fiber of his being not to glance Akane's way, boring his eyes onto Takaoka instead. No words were needed for the three of them to start on cue, Naoki sat back enjoying the private concert, swaying his body to the music and humming the lyrics, his cheeks regained a smidge of color by the final song.
It was Sho's turn in lending a shoulder to his friend, Akane walked next to them like a shadow, leaving Kazushi frozen in place. After several minutes, Saijo reappeared carrying their mugs with teabags dangling on their side and sporting the freshly changed bandages.
“We're out of coffee filters,” she placed his cup in the usual spot on his desk behind the keyboard by the handle, making no clanking sound, “hope that's ok— I can go to the convenience store on my scooter if you want.”
Kazushi decided to be selfish.
“Let's go together.” The steaming tea fogged his glasses as the mellow tea's warmth bloomed into his thorax.
It's not like he had never hugged Akane before. But the singular instance he got close enough to smell her shampoo, was during a streak of boldness while Fujitani's resolve was murky and Kazushi decided to act upon those feelings for the sake of «living with no regrets»; He didn't rue being honest to Saijo and to himself by proxy, but sorrow was a worm that preys on the fruit labor hasn't reaped.
His hands rested on the sides of her denim jacket, the occasional red light forced him to strengthen his sweaty palms in order not to fall off the bike, anchoring himself to the Vespa's overcapacitated seat with the might of his stomach. After feeling he grew a pair of abs for the first time in his life, the convenience store was right in front of them.
Kazushi snatched the shopping basket out of her and shadowed her every step through the walkway. Navigating the aisles was lengthier than the actual purchase, the filters were not in their usual spot between the coffee capsules and vegan substitutes for milk.
He could swear they were being followed. The average person would find it a cause of immediate concern, though Kazushi—like the rest of the members—had to reprogram their fight or flight response to examine the suspects for shaky hands, scurrying for their own cellphones and fleeting smiles.
Akane and him were outnumbered by a difference of one extra person. The trio found a window of opportunity when they stopped by the shelves of instant meals, the exact coffee filters they were looking for were hidden behind pre-cooked noodles for some reason .
“Um, excuse me,” everyone started the same, “Are you Kazushi and Akane?”
“Yes!” Seijoh answered before Kazushi could tell them they were mistaken.
The three students washed them in compliments and empty flattery, their true motive coming through.
“If it's not rude to ask,” the one in the middle dared to say, “How's Mr. Fujitani?”
Kazushi's mouth was ready to dismiss them as he examined Akane's expression.
“He's keeping up his promise.” Her eyebrows carried all the tension to forge a genuine smile.
⁂
The night Kazushi finished the song, he had already written six more—they were still jambles of melodies and possible harmonies jotted down neatly in his black leather journal, but he knew they would amount to that number once he sorted them out. Being wiser than the man he was a whole calendar sheet ago, the audio file was completed in the confines of his living room, a place so foreign after his frequent visits to Naoki's residence.
He would be lying if he said his only reason to go there was Akane, he cared for Naoki too, obviously. Like when he went to the studio the past week.
Fujitani managed to sneak past Sho, who went out with Kai to talk about business, and was patiently waiting for him in the studio. Clearly, Akane was more lenient than Sho, having moved the entirety of Naoki's bed except for the mattress—but it wasn't hard to tell it was next on the list.
“Ah, Kazushi,” Fujitani sat up in his fortress of blankets and pillows, “I knew you'd show up.”
“I can tell you just lacked the «when».” He beelined to his instrument as usual.
“If I became concerned for the passage of time I'd spiral into madness.” Said the guy who carved partitures into the walls.
Dust stuck onto Kazushi's fingertips, sweeping a thin layer of soot off the keys.
“What do you want from me?” He knew Naoki's pilgrimage was no coincidence.
“I have this song idea” Fujitani's left eye twitched, “but I can't get it right.”
The treatment is affecting his pulse, he stared at the papers overloaded with scribbles. He knew the man's handwriting was messy, but Kazushi was more familiar with the struggling lines of a faulty grip. He also had been sleuthing for information about the topic, cursing his teen self for never considering something outside of music an option. Searching for one medical jargon led him to investigate other four of them for the opening sentence of an essay to make sense. That's how he crammed hours-long testimonies from various meningioma patients into his walks to any destination, his days for doing laundry and even when he waited for his dinner to cook. It's been the most constant he has been with the medication cycles, too. Even Akane was skipping class as often as when they recorded their debut album, everyone feared she might be held back a year, hence Kazushi's sojourns.
“You're sure you're feeling well?” Akane squished the handles of her backpack in her calloused fists “They'll understand.”
Naoki slowly blinked at her furrowed brows and shook his head.
“Don't worry, Kazushi will be doing all the work.” He looked at the wall clock as if Sho remembered changing the expired batteries, “You'll be late, good luck with your exam.”
Kazushi muttered the same wishes before she bolted out of the house. Fujitani made him transcribe the Morse code of a beat he clicked with a pen against the concrete floor. The pianist ended the session with a constant cramp from all ten of his knuckles to his reddened digits, reminding him of the first piano lessons with his grandma when his pinkies couldn't even reach for the whole octave.
“My hands are gonna get blistered by tomorrow.” The sides of his distal phalanxes already exhibited telltale swollen bumps shining under the white light, “I hope you're happy.”
“Very much.” Naoki played along to his annoyance.
And that's why Kazushi sat with his feet off the floor in the living room sofa. Glasses ditched by the nightstand, holding his notebook over his knees and shifting the pages by clasping them between his palmar creases. Fingers littered with craters that hurted like hell if acknowledged.
The phone rang a few times before his bent index could slide the green button across a default savescreen.
“Yeah, Takaoka?” his eyes were fixed on the swirls of ink.
He had to ask Sho to repeat what he just said.
“We had to take him to the hospital,” he said once again, “he's on observation—Nothing too bad, but he vomited tonight and his temperature was high.” He tried his best to sound calm, but his pauses were unsettling for Kazushi.
There was no use in politeness, he declared he would join them as soon as possible and rushed his way to the reception, where Takaoka waited for him with closed arms.
“It's no big deal,” he continued to reassure, “he's been given meds for nausea and will be watched for a few hours for protocol.”
Then why isn't Saijo here? He knew something was up.
Akane came out of one of the many halls, by the proximity to the elevator and the irregular blush around her eyes it was safe to assume it was the bathroom.
Kazushi couldn't even say a word before she tackled him in a hug. Neither of them were strong enough to take down a person, but it made his feet shuffle a little against the ground.
“I'm glad you're here.” Unlike him, she was free to speak her mind.
The hospital's cafeteria was desolated to nobody's surprise. The personnel took pity on how miserable they might have looked, sparing Sho to buy a cup of tea for Akane.
“Takaoka is not being frank with me,” Kazushi used the opportunity, “What truly happened?”
He regretted the jerk of her shoulders.
“There was blood in the vomit.” Her voice was frail, “It can be the chemotherapy, but still it is… I'm worried.”
He thought Sho was back with the cardboard cup, but turned out to be a trick of the light against the glass windows. He extended his hand across the thoroughly cleaned table, bursted splotches of flesh exposed to her. Akane sniffled and smiled.
“Your hands.” She searched for something in her backpack, pins jingling at her every move to pull out a box of band-aids—his band-aids.
Saijo diligently wrapped his fingers in the colorful depictions of flowers and smiley faces.
“The last thing we want is for your fingers to fall off.” She quoted him verbatim.
Kazushi caught himself smiling like a fool before anyone could notice. The light against the window flashed one last time before Takaoka finally appeared juggling not one, but three disposable cups of boiling hot tea by the grimace smacked onto his face.
“We can drink them in the car,” Sho suggested not so subtly, “They'll discharge Naoki in a few hours by the morning.”
And so they enjoyed their scorching drinks in Takaoka's vehicle. Kazushi was grateful for Saijo's bandages providing a layer of protection against the fervid paper cup.
⁂
The sun rose over the horizon and hit Kazushi square in the face. They improvised ways of sleeping in their respective seats; Takaoka stuck his feet as far as possible from the pedals by hoisting them up the dashboard, Kazushi granted his backseat privileges to Saijo, who was by far the most comfortable curled with both of their coats serving her as blankets, decision her two bandmates grieved every time the chilling air made them shiver awake at random.
Kazushi instinctively looked for his glasses, facepalming as he had forgotten them at home. He was about to ask where they could have breakfast when his stomach grumbled loud enough to alert the others. Sho tried—keyword tried—not to laugh, wheezing the air out of his lungs while shutting his eyes as a last ditch attempt to pretend he was still asleep. Akane was a better actress, burying her face in Kazushi's long coat, too bad her giggles were audible beneath the cotton fabric.
“Are we grabbing something to eat or not?” He felt heat rise onto his ears.
They decided to spare the cafeteria staff and grabbed the executive menu of a nearby cafe in the area. Kazushi was fine with eating on their way back, but Sho nagged him about not wanting crumbs on his car. A facade easy to debunk from how often Takaoka himself encouraged snacking with him at the wheel, but the drowsiness hadn't worn off Akane and didn't doubt why they ate breakfast in a small garden behind the coffee shop. The morning breeze was a welcome change of pace before they went back to suffocate in the sterilized air of the hospital.
“The bleeding was only in the gums.” The oncologist revealed much to everyone's relief, “However,”
Ah, starting with the least grave news to lessen the blow, Kazushi despised this kind of trickery.
“The cause was a drop in his platelets from the temozolomide. We must suspend the treatment until his levels recover and discuss further a switch in medication or in his whole plan.”
It was hurtful to see Akane's eyes light up with hope as she nodded, not fully understanding what that meant.
“So we have to keep him under observation and limit visitors, his immune system is weak, a common cold can be dangerous." The doctor shattered Saijo's twitching corners of her lips, “I know it's hard, but the best way to support him right now is giving time for him to stabilize.” There was a slip of empathy in those last words, whether sincere or calculated would remain unknown as the three of them sat defeated on the cold benches of the reception.
“Are you dying?” Kazushi remembered staring down at Naoki's sprawled figure the week prior.
“Everyone gets a day closer to their deaths, it's not something exclusive to me.” he yawned nonchalantly.
“That's not what I meant,” he wasn't letting him escape, “Are you playing funeral parlor with us again? Preparing everything before you go?”
“I know how uncertain this is,” Naoki crooked his neck to glance at his pianist, “but I'm not thinking about the end anymore.”
His body swayed like leaves off a tree.
“Whenever I'm sad, I write music. If I feel joy, I make music. Before I learned how to name a feeling, I resorted to music.”
At the time Kazushi heard those words, he thought it was the pills affecting his mind, clouding his judgement.
“Don't let it consume you," resonated with a completely different tune across the memory, “transfer it to paper.”
⁂
The ride to the studio was silent. Akane’s orange scarf she enveloped Naoki with, so as not to suffer the cold, snuggled neatly folded close to her chest. Sho nibbled his guitar pick between his canines, Tenblank’s logo was starting to chip. And Kazushi could only distract himself by reading the plates of each passing car, the rain upping the challenge.
Takaoka opened the door with his respective set of keys, already rugged over the years of unfortunate weather, Kazushi entered the main hall and promptly stopped when he didn't hear it shut.
In walked Saijo with the scarf jailed between her arms. She didn't acknowledge anyone, discarded the muddied indoor shoes she forgot to change before she hopped into the car with a stumbling Fujitani, and passed straight through the glassdoor. Red, puffy eyes lingered on Naoki's keyboard before placing the piece of clothing over the controls and sat hunched in her stool, fiddling with her drumsticks.
No soft, considerate pitter-pattering of her mid tom she always did not to startle the others. Just a loud clash of the wooden sticks against the plastic drumhead, denting them with the metallic rim in the process. She hitted her instrument as hard as possible, one could argue it was no longer music but an exorcism of everything impure or a duel with the storm of who could bring the most thunder.
Fujitani’s last conversation with Kazushi took on a religious meaning the same way ceremonial chantings diversified their implementation over centuries. Possessed to give a hand in the ritual, he gravitated to his own keyboard and unplugged the headphones, quickly switching for the aux.
Sho very much like him knew no one who crossed paths with Naoki came unscathed. How could you be normal after meeting such a music lunatic? He joined the ongoing recital after making sure he wouldn’t electrocute himself when turning his guitar back to life. They played until the sun snuffed all the natural light in the room and they had to blindly feel their way to the kitchen before they could faint from exhaustion.