Hajime no Insho
sho juichi.
Therapy for Takanori was the stage. And exactly what he was remedying, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he definitely felt better on the stage than he did anywhere else. Sure, he felt withdrawals when he’d scan the crowd and not see her face, but there were up to six hundred other faces to replace hers, and they were all watching him, watching the band, paying to hear them play.
Did he miss talking to Midori during breaks? Or giving her a kiss goodnight on her front porch? Or holding her hand and walking down the street with her? Yeah. He did. He missed all of that a lot. Losing Midori as a girlfriend had made him spend three days in his apartment, stuck between fury at her parents and actual hurt at the way it had killed him to watch her leave for the last time. And then he’d spent another three days beating the hell out of his drums in rehearsals, catching the band off guard but performing at an absolute peak nonetheless.
And then Akira had decided that he’d gone through enough, and he’d intervened. He’d taken him out for coffee, and then out for drinks when coffee wasn’t doing the trick. And they’d talked.
The bassist had asked all the questions that one would expect that a best friend would ask. He’d asked why it had ended, if there was a way for them to get back together, and if Takanori was absolutely positive that he would be okay. He’d asked if he and Midori still talked, and he’d seemed happy when Takanori could say that she’d at least promised to sneak out to their shows.
And then after all of that, Takanori had decided that he needed to get over it; they’d only been together for a month and a half, and the band was now the most important thing in his life, and to hell if he was going to mess that up over a breakup. Because it hadn’t been messy whatsoever, and neither of them had intentionally hurt the other. They’d simply said ‘mata ne,’ in a vain hope that they would actually have the chance to meet up again.
Some part of him hoped they would; another, more realistic part of him knew that they’d probably never speak again.
But he had therapy. He had the band. He had the stage. And the band had a few new songs, and they had three lives to play within the space of two weeks. He was definitely not going to let the decision that Midori’s parents had made screw with his ability to attain his dream and prove everyone wrong like Midori had told him that he would. Yeah, it sucked when his phone could be off and no one could care less.
But when he wasn’t alone or taking a smoke break during rehearsal, he had the best kind of therapy. He could beat the hell out of his drums on stage, and the crowd would only yell louder, and the band would only play louder, and it was such an incredible thing to feel. The rush of the energy from the crowd was the same, if not stronger, as the first show they’d played as Ma’die Kusse, and that energy was what Takanori lived for.
Could the crowd see him? No, but he made sure that they could hear him.
And at the end of the show, he’d simply gave a bow of his head and raise his hand in his trademark salute as he and the band left the stage, and then they’d all collapse into the closest available seat, their heads dropping back and their eyes closing, letting out a long breath of exhaustion.
It was at this point where Akira would clap Takanori on the shoulder, grin, and make a comment like “We beat the hell out of ‘em” or “That was the best show yet” or “Holy hell, man, you look tired” on a good night. And Takanori would smile tiredly, shrug Akira’s arm off his shoulder, and the bassist would chuckle at him and turn his attention on his beloved bass- tuning it, running a cloth over it, and waxing it if he had the energy.
Yui would take to rubbing at his neck, Kouyou would massage his wrists, and Tetora would let out a yawn and secretly be praying that he hadn’t screwed up his vocal chords.
After just over three months of being a band, they’d finally found a routine, and after that time, eight hundred kids were paying three thousand yen to hear them play, and Takanori could find solace in the fact that he felt like he fit in with these four guys more than he had in his last band; that group had lasted two months, and he’d probably been the least valued member in the group.
Were they incredibly successful? Not really. They played the same three clubs in cycles and the same people came to see them and paid the same price, but they got along really well and their music was apparently half-decent, as the regular attendees had learned their lyrics and liked to sing along. Were they going to be a band forever? Probably not. Takanori’d had three months to get to know these guys, and none of them seemed as though they would be happy about being stuck in a band that was going literally nowhere.
But had they gotten stuck yet? No.
So Takanori still had his therapy.
Did he miss talking to Midori during breaks? Or giving her a kiss goodnight on her front porch? Or holding her hand and walking down the street with her? Yeah. He did. He missed all of that a lot. Losing Midori as a girlfriend had made him spend three days in his apartment, stuck between fury at her parents and actual hurt at the way it had killed him to watch her leave for the last time. And then he’d spent another three days beating the hell out of his drums in rehearsals, catching the band off guard but performing at an absolute peak nonetheless.
And then Akira had decided that he’d gone through enough, and he’d intervened. He’d taken him out for coffee, and then out for drinks when coffee wasn’t doing the trick. And they’d talked.
The bassist had asked all the questions that one would expect that a best friend would ask. He’d asked why it had ended, if there was a way for them to get back together, and if Takanori was absolutely positive that he would be okay. He’d asked if he and Midori still talked, and he’d seemed happy when Takanori could say that she’d at least promised to sneak out to their shows.
And then after all of that, Takanori had decided that he needed to get over it; they’d only been together for a month and a half, and the band was now the most important thing in his life, and to hell if he was going to mess that up over a breakup. Because it hadn’t been messy whatsoever, and neither of them had intentionally hurt the other. They’d simply said ‘mata ne,’ in a vain hope that they would actually have the chance to meet up again.
Some part of him hoped they would; another, more realistic part of him knew that they’d probably never speak again.
But he had therapy. He had the band. He had the stage. And the band had a few new songs, and they had three lives to play within the space of two weeks. He was definitely not going to let the decision that Midori’s parents had made screw with his ability to attain his dream and prove everyone wrong like Midori had told him that he would. Yeah, it sucked when his phone could be off and no one could care less.
But when he wasn’t alone or taking a smoke break during rehearsal, he had the best kind of therapy. He could beat the hell out of his drums on stage, and the crowd would only yell louder, and the band would only play louder, and it was such an incredible thing to feel. The rush of the energy from the crowd was the same, if not stronger, as the first show they’d played as Ma’die Kusse, and that energy was what Takanori lived for.
Could the crowd see him? No, but he made sure that they could hear him.
And at the end of the show, he’d simply gave a bow of his head and raise his hand in his trademark salute as he and the band left the stage, and then they’d all collapse into the closest available seat, their heads dropping back and their eyes closing, letting out a long breath of exhaustion.
It was at this point where Akira would clap Takanori on the shoulder, grin, and make a comment like “We beat the hell out of ‘em” or “That was the best show yet” or “Holy hell, man, you look tired” on a good night. And Takanori would smile tiredly, shrug Akira’s arm off his shoulder, and the bassist would chuckle at him and turn his attention on his beloved bass- tuning it, running a cloth over it, and waxing it if he had the energy.
Yui would take to rubbing at his neck, Kouyou would massage his wrists, and Tetora would let out a yawn and secretly be praying that he hadn’t screwed up his vocal chords.
After just over three months of being a band, they’d finally found a routine, and after that time, eight hundred kids were paying three thousand yen to hear them play, and Takanori could find solace in the fact that he felt like he fit in with these four guys more than he had in his last band; that group had lasted two months, and he’d probably been the least valued member in the group.
Were they incredibly successful? Not really. They played the same three clubs in cycles and the same people came to see them and paid the same price, but they got along really well and their music was apparently half-decent, as the regular attendees had learned their lyrics and liked to sing along. Were they going to be a band forever? Probably not. Takanori’d had three months to get to know these guys, and none of them seemed as though they would be happy about being stuck in a band that was going literally nowhere.
But had they gotten stuck yet? No.
So Takanori still had his therapy.