Chapter Text
February 2024
“Kaz, d’you know that auntie who’s always leaving comments on our pics as if she’s having a private conversation with you?” Amahisa Kousei asks, slumped on one of the couches of their studio, languidly swiping on his phone.
And contrary to their laidback guitarist, the bassist and main songwriter of the band is actually busy. “How am I supposed to know each and every one of our fans?” Kazuya retorts distractedly, more focused on getting the right chord to fit the mood of the last song he has been working on for days.
“Right, especially considering the boundless size of your fanclub!” Shunpei jeers at him, that asshole. “Well, if you don’t know her she must be a little bit crazy, what’s with that? “You look so handsome Kazu-kun, so grown up!”” The drummer takes Kousei’s phone to read aloud. “Man, she really comments on every pic you appear in. “Your mom would be so proud of you, I know I am!” So creepy! Oh wait, what is the newest one? “I know you are busy Kazu-kun, but you should stop by sometimes, it’s been ages since you last tasted my curry. You-chan won’t say it but he misses you.” She must mistake you with someone else, or have a very vivid imagination. Is it what they call parasocial relationships?”
Kazuya’s blood froze in his veins somewhere in the middle of Shunpei’s reading just to flow back with an intensity that deafens him. “Give me that Shun.” The bassist imperiously demands, holding out his hand.
Kousei’s protests are drowned out by the loudness of his thoughts. Sure enough, Instagram user krmch.himiko175 stares at him through the screen. She looks as he remembers her, with a little boy in her arms, hair so dark with green hues. Kazuya does not quite dare to click on her profile, part of him apprehensive of what he could find and, after a second of hesitation, locks Kousei’s phone. He is almost grateful Mei is out with his agent, who knows what the little pest might have found on his face, which apart from Shunpei and Kousei’s bickering in the background only leaves –
“Are you alright Kazuya? She’s not a stalker of yours, is she?” Sweet Nori asks with a concerned voice. Kazuya did not see him get closer to them from his corner of the room where he was practising, attracted by the commotion. Despite the chaos in his mind, Kazuya would feel terrible to rudely brush him off.
He half smiles at their keyboard player before throwing Kousei’s phone back to its owner. “No. Those are weird messages, but I don’t know her.”
Which is partly true. How could a toddler know an adult he barely remembers almost thirty years after?
She was nice, with a blinding smile and warm eyes, Kazuya is pretty sure of that. He heard that he used to see her very often, but he can only trust the words of others as his reminiscences of this period are scarce, tainted by time and grief.
There are flashes though.
A greenish little gremlin making a lot of noises, hitting shiny, metallic things, impossible to ignore.
A sense of mischief that his body remembers better than his eyes, paired with a laughter crawling up his spine.
He remembers staring at a back, at a nape he tickled to make the kid wait for him.
The touch of a skin which was always burning like summer, because for all the gremlin made him run, there was always a hand extended towards Kazuya.
The most he knows is through photographs, depicting how they apparently shared most of their early years together. Candid photos of the loud kid and him digging dirt, posing proudly to the camera together, eating sweets, napping in the same bed.
He was told their parents got along, especially their mothers, while he remembers nothing of “You-chan’s” dad.
Weirdly enough, the clearest memory of his childhood is not his mother’s hugs, his first trip at the beach, nor a birthday celebration. It is Youichi fighting other kids who did not understand why he was a Kuramochi like his mother instead of wearing his father’s name.
He must not love you then.
To this day, the sentence still resonates within him, striking a painful chord. Why he was so affected by the chill of words that were not addressed to him is a mystery reserved for sleepless nights.
Kazuya learnt afterwards that the dad left, which explains why the Kuramochis moved out of Tokyo.
But it was long, so long ago it should not matter anymore. Still, the unsuspected affection from a mother of another can travel space and time better than memories.
“Should we practise? Mei won’t be happy if we’re all slacking off when he comes back.” Nori tentatively speaks over the noise.
“Narumiya Mei isn’t the boss of me.” Kousei mutters, though he still takes his guitar from its case.
“Really?” Shunpei taunts him. “Then who begged him to join his band?”
The cry of outrage that escapes his plump lips is his loudest of the day. “I never begged.”
Which is partly true. Kousei had just been backhanded about it, like with most things he wants.
InaSeiShi, most commonly referred to as ISS, is originally a band of three.
Narumiya Mei, a popular public figure since he was six, is said to be its leader. Rather than a leader, he is without a doubt the face of the band, as the former child singer is more used to looking after himself than after others.
As long as I shine bright enough for the five of us, my light will prevent anyone from bringing us down.
“My life changed when I met Kazuya at a contest in 2002.” The blonde would be delighted to declare at every given interview, just to embarrass his bassist. “He mostly played the guitar at the time, and always came up with brilliant compositions for a kid his age. I decided I didn’t want a solo career after all if he could play by my side. But it took years to convince him, that stubborn brat only agreed to form a band with me after I learnt how to play the guitar myself.”
They were eighteen when they formed InaSeiShi, the rock band Mei had dreamt of with himself as the singer-rhythm guitarist, Kazuya as the bassist, and Sanada “I know just the guy, he’s a bit carefree but when he focuses he’s a genius” Shunpei at the drums.
Mei’s reputation helped them a bit to land gigs, and even though it was not what his fans were used to, little by little they managed to make themselves known.
A couple of years after their debut they stumbled upon Amahisa Kousei, or rather the bald and bold guy walked up to them at the end of a gig.
“You’ll never be a true rock band without a lead guitar.” He declared by way of introduction.
“We know that.”
“So take me in.”
They left him to stew at first, just to see how desperate he could get. Amahisa was already known as a brilliant guitarist, despite his reputation of being an airhead. Fortunately, from the moment he joined the group he showed a complete dedication.
What the four of them have in common is to never take anything for granted, and to never back down in front of a challenge. So, when after a couple of years, and despite their producers and managers’ warnings, they decided to try out different genres like pop rock and ballads, Kawakami Norifumi was added to the group to play the keyboard and piano.
Mei calls him their lucky charm.
And for sure they never had to complain about luck.
Kazuya is not the type to get falsely modest: of course every member of their band is crazy talented, and of course they have worked relentlessly.
However, there is no need to deny they got extremely lucky to get attention from the general public, and most of it is thanks to the nagging blonde brat he met two decades ago.
After all, he embraced Mei’s dream knowing their dice would be loaded in favour.
Nobody forgets to bring up who they owed their success to, and weirdly enough the most annoyed with this take is Mei himself, who can get very defensive of his bandmates despite his past tendencies to bask in praises.
Insolent and defying standards for some, complacent and mainstream for others, InaSeiShi is on everyone’s lips and often live in the spotlight despite themselves. They were even sometimes reproached to be “too handsome, an idol band in disguise,” which would be sort of funny if it was not so ludicrous.
InaSeiShi as a band of five has recorded several albums, toured everywhere in Asia, dominated various charts. And after fifteen years of career they received what is certainly their biggest honour yet: they have been selected to open the next baseball season with a show at Koshien to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the stadium.
Various events are planned all year long for the commemoration: exhibitions, merch launching, even shogi games, but music-wise only ISS have been asked to perform. While it is only a 20-minute gig, the rarity of the occurrence is to be reckoned with. Generally, a vocalist would sing the national anthem or performers would put on a show, but nothing that entailed to set up a stage on the revered field and to immediately take it off just before a game.
The news obviously led to extensive press coverage, and the tickets for the opening game got sold out as soon as they were made available for more reasons than one.
Even with several weeks to get prepared, it was a lot to shoulder.
So to say Kousei’s discovery throws him off centre is an understatement.
“Getting interested in our social media now?” A hot breath grazes his left cheeks. “That’s out of character for you, Kazuya.” He won’t give Mei the pleasure to show his surprise, but to be honest he was too invested in his scrolling to notice their singer was peeking over his shoulder. “That’s an old picture,” the blonde continues while he grabs Kazuya’s phone, all senses of personal space evaporated now that he does not have to be discreet anymore, “what are you looking for? If you want to go back to your lockdown-era haircut I’m gonna have to veto that.”
“Double veto!” Shunpei shouts from the other side of the room. Since when does he have the hearing of a bat?
The five of them were just having a short break after practising for hours in their studio, but it is no use to try having some space for oneself with those gossips.
“Wait, you’re reading comments? Paying attention to pictures and to people’s opinion, what have you done to my oldest friend?” Mei dramatically exclaims after a more thorough look at Kazuya’s phone before the brunette hurriedly puts it in his pocket.
Kousei butts in at that. “Oooh are you looking for that stalker that talks like an auntie?”
For real, why is everyone getting into his business today?
Mei’s whiny attitude disappears in an instant to grow into a mix of confusion and worry. “What? A stalker? Which stalker? What’s going on?”
Kazuya placates him immediately by grabbing his hand in a loose and comforting hold. “Nothing Mei,” he utters calmly, brown eyes forcing blue ones to focus only on him, “it’s not a stalker, you know them they’re blowing things out of proportion.”
All his efforts to distract his friend go out of the window when Kousei yells “It’s this one!”, wildly waving his phone.
In two steps Mei escapes his hold and is by the guitarist’s side, frowning at the phone.
Kazuya can see it happening. The moment Mei’s eyebrows smooth into their usual position, and an expression of understanding invades his fair skin. For such a self-centred man, it is surprising he is the only one who instantly connected the dots. A time-bomb that sends nervous shivers down his spine.
“Oh. I see.” He finally speaks aloud. The bassist wonders which comment exactly Kousei showed him. If it is one that evokes his mother, or that woman’s own son. Anyway, his eyes are serious but not as judgemental as Kazuya feared. “Well, if it’s bothering you so much, you should take action.”
“What, like reporting her?” Shunpei asks in bewilderment. “Sounds a little extreme, but if it makes you uncomfortable that’s the best thing to do. Want me to do it Kazuya, since you don’t have access to our page?” Because everybody knew he would never feed it, plus their PR team manages their social media more than them nowadays.
“No, let him do it on his own.” The singer’s tone sounds unconcerned but firm. “We want our bassist to remain fully focused.”
Crack.
Something stops Kazuya from breathing for a millisecond.
Something shatters in his bones, in his core.
That’s a low blow, one that cuts deep. It is a reminder that Mei can be a cruel king, that he won’t spare Kazuya despite his soft spot for him. Not like he had to ever ask for favours, nor has he ever strayed very far from the path they have created.
When has he not been focused on the band? When has he not made it his first and sole priority?
So he bares his teeth in his usual rictus, the one that hides his emotions from the world by making him pose as a heartless, calculating hit-making machine, and re-tunes his bass.
Still, the issue must be “taken care of.” He knows that. So far, he has managed to put so many things under the rug, to brush off other related issues he is not quite sure why he cannot turn a blind eye to this one. Maybe because Kuramochi Himiko’s kind, supportive words convey a degree of intimacy he did not imagine he shared with the person whose number he was stubborn enough to save under the bare letter “K.”
Actually, Kazuya does not even know if the number is still attributed. So he drafts messages. Erases them. Until one day the bassist is tired enough to forget to overthink.
To: K.
What did you say to your mother for her to comment on all my pics?
[sent at 02.47 AM]
The sun set many hours ago, to the point it is closer to dawn than to dusk. Despite the depth of the night, the lights of Tokyo are blinding from the last store of his residential tower block. Kazuya never dreamt of a penthouse but there he is anyway, in a highly secured flat he uses more for safety measures than for his own tastes. Still, he finds himself appreciating the view when he finds time to embrace Tokyo with his gaze. He cannot fathom living nor dying anywhere else. Yet, sometimes he wishes he could see the sky without pollution to block the sight of stars.
His phone rings. Once to startle him. Twice to mock him. He does not wait for a third occasion to fray his nerves.
“Hey.” A gravelly voice immediately greets him.
A knot unties in his stomach. It is still the right number.
As soon as relief hits him another knot even tighter bruises his guts. Shit. It’s the right number.
“Hey.” He answers simply, trying to keep his overwhelmed state in check and not to sound too dumbfounded.
“What’s this about my mom?” The defensive tone goes straight to business. “No Bullshit” could be Kuramochi Youichi’s second name after all.
“Well she... She apparently follows InaSeiShi on Instagram. And she leaves comments. When I appear in a picture.” Kazuya explains in short, stuttering sentences. Forget about not sounding dumb.
“Fuck.” The sound is so low he might have imagined the curse. “Well, I don’t have time to monitor all her comings and goings! Mom’s getting old and she likes to keep in touch with technology, she uses Line and Insta a lot. She does that to all of my friends from home. They think it’s funny, those bastards.” The end of his sentence gets lost in angry mutterings again, but Kazuya retains only one thing:
“Does that mean I’m your friend?” He teases in a light and detached tone.
“No.”
The answer is immediate and implacable. Of course he is no more Kuramochi’s friend than he is Kazuya’s.
“Were you calling for something else?”
Kazuya chuckles at the petulant tone. “Technically you’re the one who called, Mochi.”
“That’s –!” Kuramochi curses again. The songwriter can barely contain another snort bubbling in his throat. “Just found it strange, it’s almost 3 AM. I thought you were anal about going to bed early and getting full nights of sleep. Not very rock of you by the way.”
Not the thing I’m the most anal for. He almost lets escape, biting his lips in retaliation for their misbehaviour and crude jokes. “Couldn’t find sleep. We’ve an important gig coming soon I’m not sure how to feel about.”
A hum of understanding makes its way to his ear through the receiver, and he cannot grasp why Kuramochi has not hung up yet. Kazuya opens the patio door leading to his balcony, welcoming the cold air that hits his face.
“That show at Koshien to open the first game of the baseball season? Saw it on the news. That’s huge.”
“Yeah. Koshien.” He confirms. He lays down on a deckchair that has no use being outside in February, but that he was too busy to put away months ago. Kazuya’s eyes get lost in the sky, trying to find a star bright enough to pierce the city clouds. “Sounds like the end of the story, the last chapter of something.”
“What? ISS is about to split?” Kuramochi exclaims in a confusion Kazuya does not manage to make sense of.
“No?”
“Then dream bigger! Dream about the States!” And the chastisement is too loud, too dynamic for this hour of the night.
Silly giggles escape his mouth. He is starting to get dizzy, his head lolling on the headrest and on his way to the stars. “I don’t care about going international. Touring in Asia is tiring and fulfilling enough.”
“You say that because you never like to be far from Tokyo.” And the accusation sounds almost knowing.
“That’s true.” Kazuya admits readily.
“Don’t you have a new album underway?” Kuramochi asks again.
“I’m not allowed to answer that.” He retorts with the voice deemed by PR “least irritating” and “most professional.”
“Fine, see if I care.”
“But I guess you’re right. New, exciting things will come by.” He eventually answers.
A pregnant silence settles. The sky is too vast and Kazuya struggles to swallow. After a full minute tickles away, he is unsure whether his interlocutor left or suddenly fell asleep.
“Miyuki, you’re really a genius. Annoys me to admit it but it’s true. You manage to explore and master many genres. The only redundant thing about your music is that you always talk about the same things.” And that beautiful rocky voice gives his criticism with a detachment he deserves. He almost wishes the touch of indulgent tenderness was not a figment of his imagination. “Won’t Narumiya get tired of always relating your old stories?”
Honestly, he did not expect the other man would be so frontal. “As long as it’s bringing him fame he doesn’t care.” He dodges instead of answering the nature of Kuramochi’s disapproval.
“Yeah, Narumiya Mei doesn’t care at all about how you’re feeling, that’s what I thought too.” Sarcasm is heavy in Mr. No Bullshit’s voice. “So, that opening night. Won’t you tell me what’s the setlist? At least do “Two Kids”, that’s your signature song.”
“So you’re recommending us to go for the classics?” He asks teasingly, as if it has not already been decided weeks ago.
“Obviously.” Kuramochi plays along. “You’re there because you’re famous. It’s not the time to experiment with samples of new songs, it’s not like you’re teasing your crowd. It’s the nation.” And it sounds even bigger when he is the one to say it. “So yeah, stick to what you do best.” He advises with an unexpected gravity that sounds definitive.
Confusion seizes Kazuya like an irrational fear, one that lacks logic. “Why do I still feel like it’s the end?” He whispers as much for himself as for Kuramochi.
“Make yourself think otherwise. Feelings change.”
And the other man hangs up at that, finally done with Kazuya’s nonsense.
“Mine don’t.” The songwriter eventually addresses the sky.
His fingers itch. For a guitar, for a pen. For something to be within his reach again.
So he gets down to work.