Chapter Text
July 2010
“C’mon Miyuki, I promise you’re gonna like it.”
“Why me though?” He whines, still wondering how he caved in, he is usually not one to indulge their wild card of a guitarist.
“To give you some street cred. You write like a satanist but have the lifestyle of a monk, it’s about time you find inspiration in reality instead of living by proxy!”
Kazuya wants to argue that Mei is worse than him, having led the sheltered life of a little prince but his complaint gets lost when Amahisa opens the rusty gate and he discovers the “indie scene” the guitarist claims he comes from.
It is honestly not far from what he expected: a vast, abandoned garage in the suburbs of Tokyo with lots of outer space where people put in busted sofas and turned pallets into coffee tables. The mood is carefree, clouds of cigarette smoke engulfing some groups, everyone laughing and drinking, basking in the sun. Everyone golden, embracing their youthful nonconformism and unbothered by the loud music coming from inside the garage.
While Amahisa takes the time to chat up every person that comes to greet him, Kazuya knows he sticks like a sore thumb. Not looking the part never stopped him to love rock nor to write good music, but he still feels a bit self-conscious in front of dubious gazes.
Until baldy puts an arm on his shoulder “Y’all, lemme introduce you to the one and only bassist of InaSeiShi, Miyuki Kazuya. He’s the one who writes most of our songs.”
Instantly, curiosity shifts into something friendlier in the gawkers’ eyes.
“Oh really? Love what you do!” “When are you guys gonna release your first studio album?” “That’s crazy, I’ve honestly been listening to “Changeup” on repeat for weeks!”
Suddenly everyone has something to ask or share regarding their music and Kazuya feels more at ease. If there is something he can discuss even with total strangers, it’s his passion.
“I went to your concerts several times!” A girl with charming eyes and a rather cute bowl cut snuggles closer, pouting against his arm. “Man, it’s a shame, you should ask the lighting desk to give you more spotlights.”
A feeling of uncomfort crawls on his skin. Mei can tease Kazuya, claiming the bassist is perfectly dense for those things, but truth is he just does not want to acknowledge them. “My performances aren’t very showy.” He answers curtly with what certainly looks like a constipated smile, subtly trying to get her to stop latching onto him.
She frowns, apparently not used to such a rebuttal, especially considering who he came with – Mr. Notorious Charmer. “I mean it’s a waste of a pretty fac-”
“Amahisa, didn’t you say your friends would be playing?” He promptly turns to his bandmate.
It’s obvious on that dumb mug gawking at him like an idiot that Amahisa forgot all about that. “Oh yeah,” A huge smile breaks his face “I bet they’re the ones causing this ruckus. Everyone, see you in a minute, I must introduce Miyuki to the Terrible Three first!” Kazuya can hear the capital letters in his voice, and he wonders for a second if he has not just traded a hurdle for a more annoying one.
The closer they get to the garage, the more Kazuya can feel his senses tingle. Music is deafening, a joyous chaos of guitar riffs and drums which still delivers the harmony of people used to play with each other.
Entering the old building is like pushing the door of another world. Very few people manage to fill the space with an intensity that almost pins the brunette to the nearest wall.
The silhouette of the man playing the drums is especially vivid. Kazuya is stricken by the vision. Light from a broken pane and dust fall onto him like a spotlight. Gleeful, free. The various piercings on his face and ears catch each ray of sun, sweat glistening on his skin like pearls. Beautiful. So beautiful.
Amahisa has the decency to wait until the musicians finish their “piece” to make himself noticed. The bunch enthusiastically and loudly greet each other, which gives Kazuya time to glance a bit more than necessary at the drummer and his dark green hair that strangely rings a bell before his guitarist beckons to him. “So here are my friends!” He proudly gathers the three of them in his arms: the drummer that looks increasingly familiar, a tall guy with a ridiculous pompadour and a scar on his face, and a seemingly even taller man who certainly has foreign origins. “Mochi, Seiichi, and Toshiki!”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Miyuki Kazuya.”
At the sound of his voice, the drummer finally looks in his direction and the moment their eyes meet Kazuya recognises him. No wonder the young man gave him a sense of déjà-vu.
“Man, nobody calls me Toshiki.” “I liked the sound of it!” He can vaguely hear in the background, but he would rather focus on the golden, distrustful eyes peering at him.
“Cool place you’ve got here!”
If the snorts that answer him are any clue, nobody buys his tentative try to be polite. “No need to force yourself dude, Kousei already warned us to not get offended by your social skills.” The taller man smirks in a way that is oddly not mocking. “And I go by Carlos, by the way.”
“Like Kousei’s a model!” Pompadour-man guffaws.
Kazuya takes a small step towards the drummer. “I guess you knew that already, Kuramochi Youichi, was it?” He asks, staring at him shamelessly to try to recreate the kid of his memories.
About to drink, Kuramochi stops in his tracks, his bottle of water hanging in the air a few centimetres from his mouth. Kazuya’s eyes are unfortunately drawn to it. “So you remember.” He simply replies, voice way richer than how he remembers it – of course it is. The bottle finds its way back to Kuramochi lips, almost defiantly as their eyes stay locked on each other.
“You guys already met?” Amahisa’s bewildered cry breaks the settling mood. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner Mochi?”
“It was a long time ago.” Kuramochi swallows, shrugs, dismissively throws his bottle away, biceps flexing, and Kazuya does not know what to do with himself.
Those insufferable seconds of intense confusion are spared by a girl bursting into the garage. “Hey! If you guys are taking a break, at least put something else. Sounds weird without any music.” She complains as she switches on a stereo and puts on an old album of the GazettE.
As Kuramochi moves to join his friends who have started to chat up the unnamed girl, Kazuya feels the unreasonable need to keep his attention on himself for a minute longer.
So he takes a look at Kuramochi’s drenched tank top and utters plainly: “You stink.”
At least it immediately stops the drummer. “Ha?” Kuramochi turns to face him completely, showing off his silhouette both lithe and sturdy, and how shorter than Kazuya he is. His otherwise handsome face is crumpled in a pissed off expression. “You still run your mouth? Not tired of getting your ass beaten up?” He stands closer to Kazuya, hands on his waist in a probable show of intimidation. Not that it is working one bit.
“Fewer and fewer people dare to these days.” Kazuya smirks back.
Kuramochi scoffs at that. “Bet you’re trying to get famous just to entitle your rudeness.”
“I’m not trying to get famous.” Kazuya frowns. Of course he wants his music to reach people, but if he could remain anonymous while doing so, he would.
“Why pick Narumiya Mei as your singer, then?” Does Kuramochi notice he invades more and more of his space? Is it on purpose, trying to throw him off with his borderline offensive questions and body language?
“We’re a good team.” He retorts in a too defensive tone, which makes him feel he has just lost a game he did not know he was playing.
“Mmm.” His opponent hums unconvincingly; piercing eyes and a tilted head trouble him far too easily. The brunette does not need to be enticed to glance at that offered neck.
In an attempt to regain his footing, the bassist lets his eyes wander around the garage and points the instruments out. “So you know how to do something other than talk fast into a mic?”
“f*ck you.” Kuramochi spats, spoiling the phlegm he managed to display. “I’m a musician too.”
“You were a loud kid. I’m not surprised you know how to play the drums, considering how you used to hit and bang anything you saw.” He comments teasingly.
When he finds back the shorter’s eyes, he sees them widen in surprise. Amahisa certainly warned his friends Kazuya would join him, so the drummer was not too startled at his arrival in the garage. However, he is now visibly experiencing the unexpected recognition Kazuya felt a few minutes ago. And for sure Kazuya was not prepared for his expression to soften in reaction to that slander.
“You really remember.” He replies with a low voice, almost a whisper.
“Not much.” The bassist admits. “But a bit more. You could fill in the blanks.”
Without a word, Kuramochi tests him with his eyes, before taking a decision: “Not a huge fan of the GazettE. Wanna play something?” He nods towards the abandoned set of instruments. And there is nothing Kazuya wants more.
“Depends, can I borrow one of the guitars?”
“As long as you take care of it, Carlos and Seiichi aren’t fussy.”
So the two of them take position, Kuramochi behind the drums and Kazuya where Carlos stood. The guitar is already tuned, but he takes the time to play with it and to adjust the amp in order to tame the odd excitement he can feel bubbling under his skin.
“You ready, rising star?” The other eventually asks, one foot already frenetically beating time.
“Start the tempo, I’ll follow.”
Kuramochi does, and Kazuya forgets everything around them. The immediate urgency imposed by the drums only races faster, more violent until it gradually subsides just to rise again, like a wave never crashing, as if they were in sea far from the shore, with an eternal immensity in front of them. So they play for he has no idea how long, until his bangs are stuck to his forehead, until his fingertips start to bleed, until he knows the rhythm of Kuramochi’s drums better than his own heartbeat.
When, exhausted and exhilarated, the wave they have created has to turn into foam, the bright sun that used to bathe Kuramochi’s skin has taken orange hues.
Without him noticing, quite a crowd formed in front of the open doors of the garage. Blaring applauses and cheers explode at the final note.
“Amazing!” Amahisa rubs the – awfully sweaty – top of his head, genuine admiration in his voice. “I haven’t heard you play the guitar for a while, but you killed it!”
It is only after they have caught their breath and knocked back a gallon of water that Kazuya finally goes to his temporary music partner. “That was good.” There are a thousand words more suited than this, but none of them comes to his tongue.
“Are you gonna use it for a song of yours?” Kuramochi asks with a teasing glint in his dilated pupils.
“Nah, don’t need to see your name on our credits.” He jokes back. “You can take it.”
All previous reserves the drummer had towards him seem to have vanished, as he cackles loudly. A singular laugh Kazuya did not know he remembered. “I don’t have a rock band though.” The shorter man answers while trying to wipe down his face with his shirt.
“No?” The bassist wonders – and definitely does not sound strangled. “You could.”
Kuramochi shrugs. “Despite everything, I do prefer to “talk fast into a mic”.”
“Wow, yet another thing to prove today!” He exclaims sarcastically. “Want to refresh my memory?”
The shorter man playfully nudges him as they walk towards his friends. “And yet another incitation to keep talking to me!” He pauses, looking like he is making up his mind before asking Kazuya: “Wanna hang out again someday?”
“Sure.” And he can feel his most sincere smile bloom on his own lips.
February 2024
Fortunately, Kazuya’s appointment with his ophthalmologist took less time than he feared. They must have barely started to rehearse he thinks as he pulls the door of their studio. However, when he enters the room his bandmates are not at their instruments but listening to something. Kominato from their PR team is there too, standing in front of the others, intently focused on what’s blasting from Kousei’s phone. Weird.
I think I probably wasn’t in love with you.
I think I probably loved the idea of you.
And if that ain’t a voice he knows.
“Of course you should hear it from a source better than my phone. But it’s really good, right?!” Kousei enthusiastically exclaims.
Mei notices him from the corner of his eyes at that moment. “Oh Kazuya, you’re already here?” After knowing him for more than twenty years, his nonchalance does not fool him.
Against his will, a blatant uneasiness seizes the occupants of the studio.
Except for Kousei who completely misses how uncomfortable they all look, and Kominato who always stays impressively professional. The former gleefully turns towards him from where he is sitting, very proud of his friend. “Yo Kaz, I was convincing Haruichi to let us share Mochi’s new sound on our social media!”
“Not entirely convinced yet.” The younger man objects. “I really need you to understand the difference between promoting something on your personal accounts and on the main one. You guys don’t realise how much you run the show, who you choose to make known has to have a spotless reputation.”
“But he’s no random guy, we know him!” Kousei protests ardently. “And even though he hasn’t yet really made a breakthrough for himself people know him, and people obviously know we know him!”
Everybody stays mute and awkward, and Kazuya is partly responsible. So he shakes himself out of his own torpor and casually goes to sit on the armrest by Nori’s side, who sends him obvious worried glances. It is his role to ease their minds and to pretend everything is fine. After all, this is a professional matter, moreover, apart from Mei, he does not know how much the others guessed how this song might affect him.
“C’mon guys, back me up a little!” Kousei eventually calls them as witnesses. “Y’all like him, some people more than others.” The end of his sentence is laden with innuendos, an insistent tone paired with an emphatic glare.
They all follow his gaze, which falls on Shunpei slumped on his chair.
The drummer rolls his eyes, “Oh my god Kou, that was ages ago, when will you let it go?” He sighs, scratching his head with a contrite air. “But yeah, fine, I also objectively think he deserves a bit of publicity.”
“You’re right Amahisa-san,” Kominato intervenes, eyes riveted to his phone. “I’ve just checked the lyrics and nothing sounds offensive. Plus, it’s logical considering your... History.”
Without a word, the group then turns towards Mei, who just shrugs in answer at the silent enquiry. “As long as Haru-kun green-lights it, I’ve got nothing to object to.”
None of these arguments are registered by the bassist, still intently listening to the song that continued to play.
Tryna love how you turn out
I don’t love it much at all
October 2011
“-But when he opened the door, it was the director of the label!”
“Still in his underwear?! No way, that Sawamura sounds hilarious! Where the hell did your manager find an intern like that?!” Kuramochi cackles loudly, tears of joy bordering his eyelids.
It takes everything in Kazuya not to gaze at him with blatant enamoured eyes. “Still not worse than Amahisa.” He complains instead, looking away. “You think Sawamura is a mess, but when they’re together the kid seems ten years older in comparison.”
Kuramochi’s sigh is brimming with sympathy. “Man, I love Kousei but I wouldn’t work with him for the world.”
“You don’t mean that.” Kazuya nudges him softly. Not that he holds that much strength, but they do not need to bring attention to themselves while they are strolling in the streets of Chiba.
“I totally mean that. What would I need a guitarist for anyway?”
Kazuya does not answer the rhetorical question and lets his eyes wander around, taking in where his friend grew up, a calm neighbourhood not that different from where his father lives.
“Has he come here often?” He asks at last.
“Kousei? Nope, he knows pretty much nothing about my life here in Chiba.”
“Like, he’s never met your family?”
Kuramochi merely shrugs. “Nah, we’re not that kind of friends.”
“Afraid he’ll try to hit on your mother?” He pokes fun at the other.
“Don’t joke about that.” And the young man’s visible shiver of disgust might not only be for show. “It’s my biggest fear in life. I’d rather die than repeatedly hear him call my mom a MILF or any of the weird things he’s into. Why’d you ask anyway?”
“I dunno, thought you two were closer than that.”
Kazuya does not tally up the time Kuramochi has spent with him for the past year and the time he spends with his group of friends that includes Amahisa, nevertheless he knows they meet fairly often.
“We’re close, but like I said, not that kind of friends. We don’t talk about the past, or have deep philosophical conversations. I wouldn’t say our friendship is shallow though. We’ve fun together, we’re picturing ourselves in similar futures, and we get each other’s back. That’s enough.”
“You’re bros.” Kazuya concludes with a ludicrous emphasis.
“Why d’you sound sarcastic, ya little sh*t?” Kuramochi snorts, half-pissed half-playing along.
“Because I bet you’re the kind to say bro unironically.” He further teases.
His friend rolls his eyes, barely hiding a small smile but not refuting the claim. “f*ck you, you’re such a pompous bastard.”
“Not enough of a street guy, I know I know.”
It feels crazy to Kazuya, how intuitively Kuramochi Youichi became part of his everyday life. For the past year, not a week has flowed by without seeing each other.
When they are together, he discovers he has so many things to say, he did not know he had so much in himself to unveil.
He has discovered he does not mind being told personal stories when they are narrated by a witty tongue.
He has discovered he does not mind having his buttons pushed when it is by a snarky, smart acuteness which stimulates his own creativity.
As a teenager, this sort of connection would have frightened him. As a young adult who increasingly gains recognition and attracts the attention of strangers, Kuramochi is his safety net outside of InaSeiShi. Sure, he is gorgeous, boisterous, luminous, and Kazuya might have a tiny crush on him. But first and foremost, he is a good person, a talented, trust-worthy friend he does not want to lose. The pull he felt when he saw him that day at the garage never intended to turn into romance. It was a primal urge, an encounter that sought a bound whatever its nature.
And today, Kuramochi took advantage of the fact they did not have gigs, rehearsals or any kind of appointment to bring him to his mother’s home, where he moved in as a kid after the Kuramochis left Tokyo.
They arrive in front of a block of flats which does not look different from the many ones they passed by on their way, but when a bunch of kids stop kicking their football to come greet Kuramochi, Kazuya knows they have reached their destination.
“Oh yeah,” his friend suddenly says as he unlocks the front door, “forgot to tell you but my mom and grandpa are at my aunt’s in Yokohama for the weekend.”
Kazuya feels a mix of relief and disappointment. Even though he was anxious to make a good impression for the first time in years, he looked forward to seeing Kuramochi Himiko again. “You don’t want us to spend time together? I wouldn’t have called her a MILF.” He lightly teases, already looking around while Kuramochi busies himself, giving him a spare pair of slippers and opening everything.
“Well, it’s your fault you’re always so damn busy. Anyway, she pesters me all the time to see you now that we’ve reconnected, so she was kinda bummed she couldn’t be there, but you know, aunt Sanae is turning fifty and all, it’s a huge party.”
“And you weren’t invited?”
“When she sent the invite I had something big planned so I RSVP’d I couldn’t come.” Kuramochi brushes it off. “My plans got cancelled, everything had been booked so she couldn’t add another person, as an exception you were free for long enough to come down there, so BAM, here we are!” The shorter man opens his arms to show off their small but homely flat. “What I wanted to say was: since my mom knew you were coming today, she said she made curry for you, must be in the fridge.” At these words, Kuramochi immediately goes to the kitchen to find the proof.
Kazuya follows him, dumbfounded. “Curry?”
“Apparently you used to love her curry when we were kids.” And Kuramochi gets his head out of the fridge to proudly brandish a plastic tub that must contain the promised dish.
“Right, that urban legend that pretends we grew up together.” Kazuya smirks, perfect time to bring up his favourite subject that riles his friend.
“Again, with that?” As expected, Kuramochi huffs dramatically. “Come and see!” He straightens up and heads to the hallway that must lead to the bedrooms.
“Here!” The dark green-haired man points out a plethora of frames on the wall.
On many of them, Kazuya can see a mini-Kuramochi Youichi beside a tiny brunette with glasses that looks strikingly like himself.
To be honest, he has – almost – always trusted Kuramochi’s words, but he still theatrically gasps for kicks. “So you were telling the truth!”
The other plays the offended party. “Were you still doubting me after all this time?!”
“Could have been a very elaborate plan.” Kazuya snigg*rs.
“To do what??” His friend mutters.
Kazuya examines the photographs with more attention. Dates are carefully written in every bottom left corner.
The earliest, from March 1992, shows two kids walking hand in hand in a park, apparently very concerned about doing it right.
The most recent, from June 1996, shows them posing in front of a removal van with wet eyes. No doubt they must have bawled just a few minutes before the photo was taken.
In between, four years of them growing up, playing, fighting, sleeping and laughing together. They looked close indeed, displaying so much candid joy.
Of course there are many other pics where Kazuya does not feature, of the Kuramochis with their family and friends, of Youichi getting older. But still, he is surprised to find so many pictures of this period.
His eyes stop on a photograph from 1994. Kuramochi and he are proudly showing off atrocious drawings, and behind them two women are crouching at their level, huge smiles on their faces.
On a whim, Kazuya takes it between his hands, startled by the sight of the youthful brunette standing by the side of his three-and-a-half-years-old self, and how her eyes look like his.
“Wow. We were so little. We.” He swallows with some difficulty, getting weirdly choked up. “My father lost the photo albums from 1991 to 1998. I don’t remember what happened to them but. Yeah. We just have a pic of my mom holding me as a baby in her arms beside my father. So, I’ve never seen her nor myself at that age before.”
Kuramochi puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing a little. “I should’ve shown you earlier.” His tone is regretful. “Mom’s got more of them in our albums. And you can have this one, she won’t mind.”
“I don’t wanna steal it.” Kazuya objects unconvincingly. “But, if it was possible to make a copy, it’d be nice.”
Kuramochi’s hand moves from his shoulder to his back which he rubs in a respectful silence. “Does it help you remember?” He eventually asks after a minute, voice oh so soft.
“Sorry, it doesn’t.” Kazuya answers honestly. The brief flashes he gets sometimes do not really count, nor does he want to bring up what he recalls since it is linked to Kuramochi’s father. “Why did you hold onto those memories?”
“My mom had a soft spot for you, she loves those pics.” Kuramochi shrugs, before bitterly sneering. “Reminds her of a time when I wasn’t too troublesome I guess. Plus, I easily made friends when we moved here. But it was different. Everybody was everybody’s friend. Back then...” he makes a vague gesture at the photographs, “there were only you and I. It was special.”
“You and I against the world?” Kazuya teases with a friendly nudge.
“Something like that.” Kuramochi sounds embarrassed, looking away.
The brunette puts back the photograph to its initial place. “I’m sorry I don’t recall anything. Apart from the fact you used to be noisy, but that didn’t change much.” He smirks without malice at Kuramochi’s offended glare. “Honestly I’m a bit unconvinced you remember anything.”
“Actually, I’ll let you know I’ve a very good memory.” The shorter man haughtily defends himself. “For instance, the first time we met was at our house. We had just moved in the neighbourhood, and your mom came with you in tow to welcome us. It was near bedtime, and my mom was reading me a story, so when I saw you at the door I brought you inside to show you the book.”
“You’re making this up.” Kazuya objects, dubious. Even if Kuramochi is slightly older than him, he was under two back then, as far as he knows it’s pretty much impossible to have recollections of that age.
“I’m not!” He protests vehemently. “Sometimes even I doubt it’s accurate, but when I ask my mom about things like that she confirms it happened. Your favourite plushy was a tanuki you called Tiki.” He starts to enumerate. “When we were four, we went to an amusem*nt park with our parents. But at some point we got fed up with the trampolines where our parents were, so we both left to go play in a ball pool. Our parents thought we’d been kidnapped and freaked out, looking for us everywhere, while we had no clue we were doing something forbidden. See that tree?” He points out a figure on a photograph of a park. “It had a cavity we could reach, and we used to put marbles in it to communicate. We had one each, and when we went to the park separately, we’d exchange marbles in the cavity to inform each other we had passed by.”
“That’s pretty impressive.” And Kazuya is genuinely amazed. Maybe his friend is bullsh*tting him, but he dares say he got pretty attuned to Kuramochi’s mischievous temper, and he knows how to discern pranks from honesty. “Makes me feel even more sh*tty.”
“Don’t be. We were so young, and you went through tough stuff. Why would you remember a random kid you used to be friends with? And to be honest I’m used to it. I’m always reminding people, of birthdays, of things we did together, of things they said.” The tone is light, but something in Kazuya clenches at the self-deprecating words. “I don’t blame you at all, as I said, we were little kids! A bit more annoying when you go through heartfelt confessions just for people to immediately forget about them, or to get asked about my dad when I clearly said before he’s not been in my life for over fifteen years. It took me a while to get over the fact we don’t all have the same capacities of memorisation. I’m used to it.” He repeats, as if to convince himself, not even looking at him, eyes lost in the pictures on the wall. “But to be completely transparent... Sometimes, it’s lonely being the only one who remembers. Made me question if I’m worth as much in people’s life as they matter to me.”
“Do you miss living here?”
They went for a long stroll, following Hanami river to the sea, and on their way back they stopped to look at the sunset. Behind them, a baseball field where Kuramochi used to play, in front of them the river tinted with orange hues. Kazuya throws a quick glance at his friend’s profile. From where he sits he can see the tiny mole on his nape, right under where his hair grows.
“Here in Chiba or here with my mom and grandpa?”
“Both.”
“Chiba, hell no.” Kuramochi snorts. “My family... I miss them, but we call each other often, so it’s not so bad.”
“You’re a real Tokyoite again.” Kazuya grins.
His friend does not reply for a while, a pensive air on his face. “I dunno about that.” He finally lets out. “I’m not that fond of Tokyo, I often think about moving elsewhere.”
The bassist feels his heart drop to his stomach. “Like going where, Osaka? f*ckuoka? Don’t say Sapporo, you’d be more of an Okinawa guy.” He keeps his voice light, almost teasing, anything to hide the sudden apprehension that seized him.
“No,” and there is no trace of humour in Kuramochi’s voice. “I was thinking about... Abroad.”
“Abroad?” Kazuya repeats dumbly.
“Yeah.” His friend nods, hesitant. “Like. The States.”
“Oh.”
That’s far. So far away. It is just a want, right? It is not like the budding rapper will take a plane the next day, right?
“Japanese hip hop’s a great model, but I want to challenge myself further. I feel like I’ll never progress if I stay in my comfort zone. I want to see how they make music out there, what they experience, what they go through.” Kuramochi explains, deadly serious.
“You want to tell someone else’s story?” A hint of bitterness escapes him.
“It’s not about becoming someone I’m not. I just.” He sighs, seems frustrated somehow, scratches his own head. “Japan is not enough right now.” Kuramochi exhales while a knot ties itself in Kazuya’s throat. “I’ll come back eventually, but I want more. Honestly, it’s not only about music. We’re in our early twenties, it’s fairly banal to want to travel.”
“Travelling for a few weeks is different from moving.” He cannot help to butt in. “Which one do you want?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m gonna leave at some point, it’s an absolute certainty, but for how long... Depends if I’ve more reasons to hurry back.” Only then Kuramochi’s eyes finally meet his gaze, and he finds himself a bit lost at that last sentence.
Of course he already knew Kuramochi was ambitious and constantly sought to improve himself, but that is not something Kazuya thought he would do where he could not see him. “Which reasons?” He asks in a low voice, staring back.
“You tell me.”
Orange and gold suit him so well. He is so handsome right now, reminding him of how he was painted with the colours of the sun when they played in that garage until their lungs gave up. It is the end of October already, and yet Kuramochi Youichi always feels like summer.
Kazuya does not know what to say, what to do with the way Kuramochi looks at him somehow expectantly. They never really said what they meant to each other, even as friends. If Amahisa is “not that kind of friend”, what kind is Kazuya? What is there even to say? “I’m a lame loser who barely has ten friends and you’re amongst my favourite people in the world, while you’re always surrounded by amazingly cool people, and I don’t even know if I’m part of the top ten friends you feel the most comfortable with?”
Does he feel the same constrict around his throat at the thought of being separated? Does he get anxious at the idea of being forgotten? However, this is not about him, not even about them. He never let his personal feelings stray him from his path, he certainly won’t interfere with someone else’s.
“You’re your own person, Kuramochi. Only you can make you stay or leave.” Kazuya eventually answers, evading the scorching stare of his friend to offer his face to the less intense rays of sun.
Part of him wonders if, in the years to come, he will regret these words.
