Prompt 8: Parallel: nineteen moments from two lives half lived - Team What If
Title: Parallel: nineteen moments from two lives half lived
Rating: g
Pairing: none
Summary: parallel ; extending in the same direction, equidistant at all points, and never converging or diverging (What if Tsuyoshi had never joined JE?)
Prompt: Parallel World by Question?
Warnings: none
Notes: Thank you to my long suffering beta and also to the other half of potato pear for talking me through the last minute madness. ♥ Mash on, hot potato. ;Db
(tangent.)
Tsuyoshi flips his cap onto his head in a practiced move and tugs the brim down mutinously, tilted to a fine angle to precisely convey his disdain.
"Don't want to," he scowls furiously.
"Matchy-san," his sister says just as pointedly.
"Don't care," Tsuyoshi retorts, then "Ow!" when his sister hits him on the back of the head. Hard.
"Blasphemy," she says primly, like she hasn't just killed a few hundred vital brain cells and Tsuyoshi isn't glaring fit to burn holes in her scull. "After all the things I've done for you, you can't do this one little thing for me and infiltrate one measly little talent agency to-"
"I'm going out." Tsuyoshi tugs the brim down on his hat once more, pushes past his sister to gather his bag and basketball, worn almost smooth from frequent use, and leaves. She shouts after him but he's already long gone, halfway to the NBA in his dreams.
Six hours and a trip to the hospital later, stark walls and the smell of sickness, Tsuyoshi comes home pale and wan in the family car. There's a plaster cast on his right leg - bright orange instead of white, neon colours that stand out against the paper whiteness of his skin and the dark bruises that mar it - and his basketball has been left behind, abandoned by the ambulance that rushed him away from the courts.
The next day, his sister walks home with Tsuyoshi's homework in her bag and a half dozen quickly scribbled notes of encouragement from classmates; he'll be back in school the next week anyway. She stops by the bookstore as usual - the latest idol magazines are out today but when she reaches for a copy of Myojo, Shonentai smiling from the cover, she hesitates the barest second.
And grabs a basketball magazine instead.
A few thick markers complete her collection and there's a rueful smile lingering around her mouth as she pays. After all, she's the eldest and someone in the family has to be responsible.
The Johnny's Jimusho application, meticulously filled in with her neatest hand, finds itself torn into neat pieces, abandoned in the trash can.
(refract.)
The concert crashes around him in swirls of glitter and sparkling swathes of colour. Streamers fall from the ceiling - another cascade of balloons - and Koichi can barely hear the music over the screams of the fans around him, though the beat thuds in his chest, reverberates like his heart magnified a thousand times.
He comes out of it dazed, reeling from the energy of the crowd and when he's escorted backstage through the hordes of girls that try to follow, it feels even further away from reality. He stumbles over a cable, almost pushed over by a group of giggling back-dancers - his age, only his age, but their brightly coloured costumes render him awkward and self conscious in his jeans and simple polo.
His glasses are smudged with fingerprints and foggy with the heat of seventeen thousand screaming fans; he's an intruder in this world.
Johnny comes to greet them himself: Koichi and his nervous mother, who can barely see for the stars in her eyes, a stray balloon clutched in her hand. He's incongruous in his neat pants and shirt, buttoned up primly so that Koichi feels a strange moment of kinship. It passes after a moment and Koichi, always quiet to the point of unnoticeable, slips a few metres away to watch the bustle of the crew, dressed in their matching t-shirts and speaking into walkie-talkies. They laugh and shout and move with such purposeful intent that he freezes and stares, wondering what it would be like to part of that-
-of this.
His mother comes up to him and takes his face in soft hands, leaning in to brush a kiss across his cheek. She's leaving him here for Golden Week, she says, for him to get acquainted with the industry. There's something almost apprehensive in the way her hands skim gentle across his shoulders - Koichi has to squash down the urge to clutch at her sleeve, but he's a big boy now so he follows Kitagawa-san silently.
A stolen glance over his shoulder - his mother is still watching but she smiles at him, motionless in the chaos.
"We'll buy anything you need," Johnny says and Koichi nods, too overwhelmed to be properly grateful.
"Thank you," he says belatedly, little louder than a whisper, but Johnny is already walking on ahead, his small, straight back disappearing into the riot of feathers and sequins. Koichi runs to follow but it feels as if he's falling further and further behind.
(outlier.)
Tsuyoshi has always been popular, easy going with quick wit, so there's a steady stream of classmates that come to visit him. They bring wilted flowers already dying from the gathering summer heat, handouts and chattery gossip: who got in trouble today, the results of a baseball game.
He's happy that they're here - there's only so many times he can read the same stack of magazines over and over again but a broken leg is still a broken leg. The summer sun shines through his window, brighter each day; he's almost resentful.
A week is a very long time but it's not long enough to mend a broken bone. He has crutches and a cast covered over with enthusiastic scribbles and long empty hours that used to be filled up with basketball. Tsuyoshi knows how to be charming, to smile in the right way that makes his less than stellar grades seem less important so he hides his crabbiness when at school or with friends, but at home he sulks and communicates in little more than disgruntled noises.
It's his father that comes up with the solution, remembered from teenaged days of long hair and embarrassing fashion. He rummages through the attic and digs up an old acoustic guitar, dusty, out of tune and housing a family of spiders. It needs new strings and a good cleaning but in time, he places it in Tsuyoshi's hands and slowly coaxes Tsuyoshi's fingers into position, fumbling clumsy new on the strings.
(exponential.)
"Kou-chan, Kou-chan~!"
The voice is incongruously loud in the early morning quiet of the dorms and there are no few angry mutters and thrown pillows as Nagase rampages through the hall, down to one particular room, and tumbles onto the bed, all boundless enthusiasm.
Koichi pulls the blankets over his head and pretends very hard that he's not there.
It doesn't work.
There's a few more muffled thumps when things are thrown against walls, but Koichi and Nagase barely hear them, tussling about on the bed. It ends when Koichi's wrapped up in a layer of blanket so tight that he can't even twitch his limbs, head and feet sticking out. His hair is a long, tousled mess and it's tickling his nose, damnit.
Nagase just laughs at him and brushes teasing fingers across the soles of his feet then there's more shrieking, flailing and threats of bodily harm. They've been best friends since the first moment, when Koichi had walked wide-eyed through the door and Nagase, open and friendly, had smiled at him.
Nagase leaves first, for photo shoots and interviews, always busy since TOKIO's debut but it's a rare late morning for Koichi. Debuted life, he thinks, seems like a lot of trouble and rolls out of bed in preparation for dance practice later in the day. There's rumours of a headliner concert in the works but Koichi refuses to get his hopes up - he can't even look straight at a camera without blushing.
It's been three long years since joining, from weekend lessons and multiple rides on the shinkansen every week to relocating up to the Tokyo dorms permanently. There'll be time, he thinks to himself, and doesn't think about Nagase leaving him behind.
Later at night when the dorm is loud with a few dozen adolescent boys all returned from various jobs, it's Nagase that coaxes Koichi to practice, indulgent despite the laughing half-serious protests and dramatic pout. He places guitar after guitar in Koichi's hands, old and expensive; Nagase strokes his fingers across them lovingly and makes them sing, loud and clear.
The guitars are nowhere near as graceful in Koichi's grasp. He fumbles the notes, clashing jumbled chords and slipped fingers - he'd learned slow and careful on camera for the sake of thousands of interested viewers. The expectations weigh heavy on him; he's to perform a song on air next week.
Nagase sits behind him, patiently positioning his hands and leads him slowly, slowly through a song, touching Koichi with just as much care.
(derivative.)
"Group date," Ryota says cajolingly, leaning over Tsuyoshi's desk with desperate, desperate eyes. "You have to come along, man, we're short on numbers."
"And you're popular," Masa adds with a snort from the next desk over, balanced precariously on the hind legs of his chair. "You'll definitely pick up."
Tsuyoshi rolls his eyes and kicks at Masa's chair sending him clattering down with a surprised squawk. "Not interested. I've got things to d-"
"Fujiwara from the basketball club's going to be there," Ryota interrupts with a smirk. "I told her you'd come."
Tsuyoshi pauses. Fujiwara Saeko from the basketball club, only a fraction shorter than him with a sweet voice and eyes that almost squint shut with the force of her smile. A little flighty, sure, but he likes the way she laughs at herself, how she's unafraid to look stupid.
A few hours later and they're all crammed into a karaoke booth, girls on one side, guys on the other. Tsuyoshi is jostled unsubtly by his friends until he's opposite Saeko and she smiles at him, genuinely glad.
"What do you want to sing?" she asks him, poking at the controls.
"Tsuyoshi's a muso," Masa singsongs spitefully and Tsuyoshi gives him a blank stare. "He busks at Nanba station~"
"Really?" Saeko asks, visibly charmed and Tsuyoshi turns to smile at her.
"Let's sing a duet."
They pick a power ballad, not quite a love song, and when they get the microphones there's a chorus of wolf whistles and tambourine shaking. Saeko's smile is incandescently bright but Tsuyoshi doesn't notice, focused as he is on the words.
Tsuyoshi can't hear her voice over his own.
(integral.)
"KOUCHAN~!" Nagase yells as he barrels through the door, recklessly flinging it open so it impacts with a thud against the wall.
Koichi squeaks and hastily ducks behind Inohara who laughs, turns and neatly catches him. "Naga-chan."
"High five," Nagase cheers, triumphantly accepting the hostage Koichi.
"Unfair," Koichi sulks, dangling limply in Nagase's arms like a rag doll. He looks accusingly at Inohara and bravely holds a mostly straight face.
"This is a democracy and majority rules." Inohara's grin is bright and unworried. "Sorry."
"Spoils," Nagase grins fiercely and shakes Koichi affectionately.
"Amnesty?" Koichi laughs a little helplessly, clutches at Nagase's forearms a touch giddy.
"Mmm, no."
Koichi sighs. Every line of his body indicates hopelessness except for the shadow of a grin in his squinty eyes. The MoritaMiyake pair, snuck in almost unnoticed behind Nagase's enthusiasm, snicker at him; he waggles his fingers sadly.
"Anyways," Nagase continues cheerfully, giving Koichi a quick squeeze. "Inocchi, glad we found you. Johnny-san wants to see you."
"Eh? I swear he doesn't know about the time I-"
"He wants to see us too," Miyake interrupts, unimpressed. "And Sakamoto and Nagano."
"Not Koichi?"
"He's mine," Nagase says with an exaggerated pout. "You can't have him."
Koichi wriggles disconsolately.
"Just us," Morita says with a shrug. "We should get going."
"Help?" Koichi shifts into a slightly more comfortable position, flopped over Nagase's arms.
"When we get back," Inohara promises with a wink. "Stay safe, we're going~" He high touches Nagase on the way out, knocking clenched fists.
*
"The five of us," Inohara says slowly, not a trace of a smile. "And another kid, they're bringing him up from Kansai. We're... we're..."
"We're debuting," Sakamoto says.
(reflect.)
Ten o'clock at night and Shinsaibashi has almost as many people crowding the undercover shopping strip as during the day. The tourists have mainly gone, the flocks of Korean speaking high schoolers on their school trips and loud English speakers, to be replaced by a more exotic breed.
Girls in tight dresses and elaborately coiffed hair, boys on just as much display with slinky shirts and bleached hair. Walking down, a half dozen people step out offering menus, companionship, more.
Tonight, there's four or so acts evenly spaced down a small section of the strip, the closed shutters of Daimaru behind them. They're only fifteen, twenty metres apart and the sound clashes strangely in between, a mix of pop and rock and the clear tones of an enka singer.
To Tsuyoshi's left, there's a girl - maybe eighteen, nineteen - dressed in something short and ruffled, uncaring of the night air. It's her and a microphone, the music playing from the speakers synthesised and boppy, incongruously happy. A small group of salary men crowd around her, dressed in ill fitting suits. They have their cell phones out and the flash of the cameras spark on and off like a strobe light.
In front of him there's a few people standing back, only half interested in the music. Their phones are out also but less faces are watching him than concentrating on their screens, fingers typing faster than his move on the frets. Minor, major, his hands slide up and down in practiced movements.
A little way away, there's two homeless men eating the remains of someone's dinner salvaged from the bins. They're smiling, sitting on flat cardboard boxes with their shoes kicked off, feet black with grime, long gnarled toenails. They set their boxes up, four each connected into long rectangular structures and crawl into them - like capsule hotels, coffins - sealed up with tape against the coming winter.
In the morning, they'll be gone.
Tsuyoshi watches them between songs, sings with his eyes open. His voice soars on the highs and trembles low, smoothly rolling vibrato. It echoes off the high roofs, bounces on the dirty tiled floors - scuffed black with phantom footprints.
(amplification.)
"Thank you," Koichi screams at the crowd, voice hoarse from hours of singing, scraped raw. Sweat stings his eyes, irritates his contacts and he blames that for the tears that refract the spotlights, warm and bright, into brilliant shards of light.
Three encores and the fans are still screaming, his name is light and sound and every single bone in his body aches. Three concerts, two days and he's sung and danced and shouted at the crowd, dizzy with laughter and adrenaline. His first headliner concerts, no plan for a CD yet but it's okay, maybe. It has to be okay.
Koichi stumbles offstage last, so tired that he can barely walk straight - there's a half dozen warm bodies around him and hands on his back. They guide him through the wings, and he can hear his own voice saying something, something, though understanding is a bit beyond him until they come upon a larger space where the rest of his back dancers and band are gathered.
'Congratulations,' someone yells first and the rest follow, an avalanche of noise and suddenly, there's hands on his legs and shoulders and then nothing at all when he's flung into the air to cheers and shouting, an echo of his name in a thousand voices ringing in his ears, so high that he flies.
(intercept.)
The shinkansen is quiet, foggy with condensation from the melted snow and warm bodies, crowded together.
A softly chatting young couple, hands daringly linked, sit with their heads close together. Young men and women with books and newspapers and mobile phones, all more interesting than their immediate surrounds. A business man, dark suit and briefcase on the shelf overhead, unwraps his lunch, the crinkle of plastic loud in the silence - store bought onigiri. Tsuyoshi hasn't eaten all day.
Tsuyoshi makes his cautious way down the train, suitcase abandoned at the luggage-racks near the door but cradling his precious guitar, trying hard not to knock it into anyone. The aisles are narrow, the seats wide and comfortable even though everyone is careful to keep their limbs out of the way. Japan is considerate like that.
He meets someone's eyes but neither of them smiles.
There's an empty seat left on the aisle. His seat mate sprawls bonelessly against the window, mouth slightly open. His neck is craned in an odd angle and he doesn't seem aware of the cold window beneath his cheek, though his breath fogs in expanding circles against it, soft and rhythmic. He's not snoring, but Tsuyoshi has his Walkman and has always been good at blocking out the world.
There's something familiar about him, the tilt of his chin and the line of his jaw; a bit too strong for conventional good looks, maybe, but a bit too delicate to be handsome, and there are heavy shadows around his eyes, bruised-looking and fragile. He can't think from where.
He dismisses it and pulls out a notebook and pen instead; there are things that are more important and a rush of words suddenly clamor in his mind, waiting to be let out.
Midway through the journey, lulled by the warmth and steady movement of the train, Tsuyoshi's eyes become heavy and his fingers lax, dropping his notebook onto his lap as he succumbs to sleep. His pen clatters to the floor and rolls away unnoticed.
The next thing he knows, it's Shinjuku station. A polite cough to his left wakes him and he glances over, slightly confused, to see the other boy... youth... something in between - they must be around the same age - next to him sitting up straight and smiling wide and sweet. His eyes almost disappear, crinkling, artlessly glad.
"Excuse me," the other youth says politely and then there's a scramble of knees and elbows, sharp angles and pointy hips as they attempt to maneuver around each other. Bulky winter coats and luggage and Tsuyoshi's guitar make it all a bit harder but they're out quick enough and Tsuyoshi watches as he rushes out of the train and down the platform. He has his cell phone out, sandwiched between shoulder and ear as he totes his luggage, but occasionally one hand flails enthusiastically in the air, emphatic gestures like the other person can see exactly what he's doing.
Tsuyoshi watches him until he's swallowed up by the crowd, too short to stand out.
He braves the crowd himself, a roiling sea of humanity, but feels lonelier buffeted by the voices in unfamiliar accents than ever before.
(gradient.)
The first press conference is loud and chaotic, crammed full of reporters from every possible news source and Koichi, still reeling from being told only last night what would be happening today, can barely see straight for the flashing lights. They stick him in the middle, a manager on either side and they field question after question.
Koichi's popular after all. It's hard not to be after half a dozen years in the spotlight, headliner concerts and dramas and now a CD release. A single. This is how Johnny's Entertainment works.
He freezes suddenly, wide eyed and blank in the face of dozens of cameras going off and his manager takes over, steps in quick and easy in an almost seamless transition. Koichi clutches his fists until his nails dig into his palms, little red crescents of grounding pain, and breathes in and out until he can remember to smile.
It's a bit easier on TV, when he knows they can edit out anything too bad. He goes on Utaban first, company loyalty, and SMAP are well-known and familiar. They've looked after him since before they debuted.
Nakai is louder on camera than off and he's already known for his sharp tongue and dark humour, but offstage he lets Koichi sit close enough to touch and strokes his hair like he's only twelve again, still too quiet and shy.
"You'll get there," Nakai tells him and punches him on the arm hard enough to hurt. Koichi gives him a shaky smile in response and they leave unspoken how long it had taken SMAP to hit their stride, the members that had left, how Okada had quietly dropped out of JE only months after debut.
His first single, mournful and minor key, hits number one on the charts at release and lingers in the top ten for weeks.
(noise.)
He stares at the card the scout handed him, plain white and embossed, heavy card-stock more like fabric than paper. It's a nice offer, a good offer, something his mother would say he would be crazy to turn down when it meant putting out a CD, magazine coverage, TV appearances if everything went well.
Tsuyoshi isn't stupid so he picks up the phone and punches in the number, one at a time, slow like the steady measure of his heart.
The next few weeks are a flurry of interviews and contract negotiations. There's countless hopefuls in the halls, staring huge eyed and wondering. He's miles away from them, jaded already when they're all probably the same age, played on the same street corners to the same audiences of uncaring businessmen and attentive homeless.
They tell him he needs to cut his hair, pluck his eyebrows, change his clothes and he nods, nods, nods since he's lost the words he wants to say, to sing.
He plays them one of his CDs, self produced. It's a cheap CD-R, printable white surface but he customises each one with thick black permanent marker and whimsical swirls of ink, makes it his own as much as anything can be. They play his CD in a sterile white room, modern art print block on the wall, the furniture blandly tasteful and murmur amongst themselves about his voice.
"This won't sell," one says disapprovingly. He can't tell the difference with their suits and severe hair.
"His voice, though..." another says and looks him up and down, a clinical specimen waiting beneath the scalpel. "We can do something about the rest."
"We can get one of the songwriting teams," yet another - or maybe it's the first one - offers and Tsuyoshi, hemmed in by their words and pinned by their dissecting gazes, can't say anything at all.
(hypothesis.)
The giant wooden tori of Meiji shrine looms above them, the tree lined path long leading to the actual temple and he's been here before, multiple times for press conferences and sightseeing trips, but it feels different today. Not just because of the presence of shrieking fans - balloted, only a fraction of the ones that had wanted to come - and the press that are snapping photo after photo.
Koichi's family stand a distance away, out of range of the cameras. He waves at them, distracted.
Nagase presses a large, warm reassuring hand to the back of his neck and Koichi grins up at him, tall and unexpectedly dignified in the pressed folds of his hakama and yukata. They're only a few months apart and they share the ceremony with Morita, Higashiyama mentoring proudly.
A cascade of flashes go off like fireworks as they walk in and out of the temple. Koichi isn't fazed and he takes the time to wave at a few of the louder fans, wincing internally as the screams get louder. They call him 'Prince' these days, like they call Higashiyama prince and Koichi tries his best to mimic the long elegant lines of his body and crisp movements.
Higashiyama takes them out afterwards for their first legal drink and Nakai sends them flowers and fruit baskets, much to their collective confusion. Others send congratulations and their phones beep almost continuously with emails all day long.
"So," Nagase says much later, when all the fuss has died down and they're sharing one last beer even though the illicit thrill of it has disappeared. "Does this mean we're responsible adults?"
"Yes," Koichi says solemnly though his eyes crinkle and he swallows a hiccup of a giggle.
It's Nagase that laughs first though, fierce and bright and he gathers Koichi up in a sloppy hug, shakes him with a bit too much power. "Never change," he orders and Koichi muffles a laugh against his shoulder, not promising anything.
(aim.)
Shibuya Station is always competitive for the best spots, even though there's no lack of people. Street lives are a dime a dozen and it's an entirely different vibe from laid-back Osaka, warmly eccentric. Tsuyoshi favours a spot in the square just outside, close enough that he could see the Hachiko statue - forever faithful - if the crowds ever dissipated.
He's built up a small but loyal fan base, even if the first recording offer hadn't panned out - the torn up contract is still pinned to his wall as a reminder to himself - and he has a part time job that pays the rent on the tiny one bedroom room he keeps off the JR Chuo line. He's even played a few small gigs, at festivals and little hole-in-the-wall clubs, barely squeezing in an audience of fifty but it's good.
It's what he wants.
On the way to work, he walks past a pet store and lingers to peer into the windows every week. There's always puppies and kittens, tiny little balls of fluff that tumble all over each other. Miniature dachshunds this time.
Tsuyoshi holds a hand up against the glass and one of them, butterscotch brown, leaps against it, paws scrabbling and tail wagging, mouth panting open in a friendly canine grin. He's cute and Tsuyoshi thinks for a wild moment about going inside and taking him home - it's pretty lonely living by himself, even if his wide circle of friends means he's almost never at home - but reality intervenes.
He couldn't afford it anyway.
Tsuyoshi checks his watch and hurries away before he's late. Behind him, the puppy whines and wags his tail, watching him go.
(parabola.)
"Concert MCs," Koichi tells the crowd seriously, "are a lot of trouble. Especially with just one person."
"Eeeeeh~?!" the audience choruses back at him and he makes a face at them.
"What do you mean 'EH?'" he demands. "I don't have anything to talk about."
The dome erupts into a flurry of shouting, 'ganbare' and 'anything is okay!!' and 'KOU-CHAN~!' and laughter, because Koichi's concerts - no matter how big the venue - have always felt small and intimate, the crowd shouting to his responses.
"Anything?" he repeats coyly, flashing a smile directly at the cameras that beam onto the big screens. The crowd shouts it approval.
"Well, then," he laughs and gestures expressively with his free hand. "Let me tell you about F1."
Unchecked, his MC goes on for almost half an hour, not quite a soliloquy but close enough that he wonders how different it would be if there were someone else on stage for him to talk to, someone that he could banter with instead of doing it alone.
(spread.)
The room is small but not dark - there's a large window facing north, thin glass that lets the weak winter sunshine stream in and keeps out none of the cold. It's a nice day, unclouded even though Tsuyoshi's breath fogs in front of him, a puff of white.
His heart is broken and unfairly, the world is fine.
Tsuyoshi falls in and out of love when the seasons change, swapping tumultuous relationships for heartbreak for dizzying heights of feeling. He means it each and every time, too much love to be contained so it spills out on blank paper with every frantic too-fast beat of his heart.
(abstract.)
"How about your love life?"
"Love life?" Domoto Koichi repeats, blinking hugely blank eyes at the interviewer. "Well," he says, drawing it out. He's tilting so far to the side in consideration that for a brief and worrying second, it looks as if he'll fall off the chair. "I'm too busy with work right now, aren't I?"
"Work?" the interviewer repeats, a muffled giggle in her voice. "Just work?"
"Of course I like girls!" He laughs silvery bright, eyes squinting shut as he peers past the camera at his manager, the various crew. "Why's everyone laughing?! But, well, right now the most important thing is my work. I'll get around to the rest of it later."
"You're not concerned," the interviewer asks archly and Koichi shakes his head, eyes still crinkled.
"I've never really understood love anyway."
(confounding factors.)
Tsuyoshi has been burned once before and he's in no hurry for it to happen again, especially when it's something as important as this.
"We like your sound," she had said to him, coming up to him after a small gig in a tiny club, smoke filled with wonderful acoustics. She'd handed him a card, deceptively innocuous, heavy white embossed cardstock and he can draw the parallels in his head already.
"Thanks," he'd said, taking it and scrutinising it carefully. It was from a label he already knew, one of the heavy weights famous for discovering new talent and transporting them from the streets- maybe not always in the top ten but for street musicians, but offered something even more important. For the first time in a long time, Tsuyoshi had felt a glimmer of hope.
He'd called, of course. Rejecting one offer meant that he'd be able to walk away from this one (probably) if it went sour and they'd let him meet producers and directors, his very own put together management team even before his signature was on the dotted line.
It all looks good, sounds good and they talk to him about using his own songs, perhaps with a little bit of rearrangement but nothing drastic. Nothing that would change it too much. He reads over the contract again and again, looking for loopholes and inconsistencies but there's nothing.
Tsuyoshi's heartbeat races and he feels almost dizzy, short of breath, tight bands around his chest but there's no chance of happiness without risk. He's come so far already.
The contract is fifty odd pages, flagged here and there by sticky notes and methodically, he signs each and every page.
(method.)
"Domoto Koichi," Nakai announces and Koichi comes out through the door, still a little awkward despite having been on the Utaban set more times than he can remember. He takes his seat amidst the applause and smiles, polished and professional.
"It's your five year debut this year, isn't it?" Nakai asks, launching straight into it.
"Congratulations," Taka-san chimes in, looking hopelessly amused by the entire Johnny's Jimusho.
"Maa, five years sounds like a very long time, doesn't it?" Koichi says helplessly.
"But you've been in the jimusho for a lot longer than that, haven't you?" Nakai prods mercilessly.
Koichi laughs. "I've been in the company for more than ten years now."
"You were... twelve when you joined?" Taka-san asks and shoots a look at Nakai. "So how old were you when-"
"Did you ever have any concerns about not debuting?" Nakai interrupts, and then pauses to wait for the laughter to die down. "Tokio, V6, they all debuted before you."
"Mmm," Koichi hums in agreement. "I had solo concerts and TV appearances but I thought if this continued to go on without a CD release, then it'd definitely be the end of me. Especially since I never had a group."
"It's quite unusual, isn't it, to debut solo," Taka-san asks.
"That's right," Koichi says with a little twist to his mouth. "So I thought for sure that there was something wrong." He laughs comfortably but there's a shadow in his voice.
"Is it lonely debuting solo?" Nakai asks. "Not that you'd know any other way but SMAP sometimes feels like a family but there's only one of you so..."
Koichi shrugs, the line of his mouth straight and serious. "For a little while, I was in J-friends which was a big group. It was a lot of fun but it's different. Less pressure because there's always someone there to support you. I think SMAP, and all the other debuted groups, are really wonderful like that." He trails off and smiles super bright, even though it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'd've liked to debut with at least a partner but I think this is fine too." He laughs lightly. "I have my staff and my band and back dancers. I don't think I can say I'm lonely unless I want them to cry. Or hurt me."
Nakai laughs with him even though his eyes are sharp and dissecting and quickly changes the topic.
(quantum.)
"Domoto Tsuyoshi with his first appearance, singing his newest song Panic Disorder," Tamori announces and looks harmlessly confused for a second, craning his head around to peer at the small group of pop stars gathered behind him.
They peer back politely, on the whole well trained from previous experience; sitting on the bench next to him, Tsuyoshi takes a moment to react. He blinks and looks wide eyed up at the faces staring down at him.
"Koichi-kun, any relation?" Tamori asks and Koichi, caught fiddling with a piece of shiny gold trim on the swish of skirts hanging low on his waist, looks up. His smile is perfect.
"No," he says. "We've never met."
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Poll Team What if - Parallel: nineteen moments from two lives half lived
Rating: g
Pairing: none
Summary: parallel ; extending in the same direction, equidistant at all points, and never converging or diverging (What if Tsuyoshi had never joined JE?)
Prompt: Parallel World by Question?
Warnings: none
Notes: Thank you to my long suffering beta and also to the other half of potato pear for talking me through the last minute madness. ♥ Mash on, hot potato. ;Db
(tangent.)
Tsuyoshi flips his cap onto his head in a practiced move and tugs the brim down mutinously, tilted to a fine angle to precisely convey his disdain.
"Don't want to," he scowls furiously.
"Matchy-san," his sister says just as pointedly.
"Don't care," Tsuyoshi retorts, then "Ow!" when his sister hits him on the back of the head. Hard.
"Blasphemy," she says primly, like she hasn't just killed a few hundred vital brain cells and Tsuyoshi isn't glaring fit to burn holes in her scull. "After all the things I've done for you, you can't do this one little thing for me and infiltrate one measly little talent agency to-"
"I'm going out." Tsuyoshi tugs the brim down on his hat once more, pushes past his sister to gather his bag and basketball, worn almost smooth from frequent use, and leaves. She shouts after him but he's already long gone, halfway to the NBA in his dreams.
Six hours and a trip to the hospital later, stark walls and the smell of sickness, Tsuyoshi comes home pale and wan in the family car. There's a plaster cast on his right leg - bright orange instead of white, neon colours that stand out against the paper whiteness of his skin and the dark bruises that mar it - and his basketball has been left behind, abandoned by the ambulance that rushed him away from the courts.
The next day, his sister walks home with Tsuyoshi's homework in her bag and a half dozen quickly scribbled notes of encouragement from classmates; he'll be back in school the next week anyway. She stops by the bookstore as usual - the latest idol magazines are out today but when she reaches for a copy of Myojo, Shonentai smiling from the cover, she hesitates the barest second.
And grabs a basketball magazine instead.
A few thick markers complete her collection and there's a rueful smile lingering around her mouth as she pays. After all, she's the eldest and someone in the family has to be responsible.
The Johnny's Jimusho application, meticulously filled in with her neatest hand, finds itself torn into neat pieces, abandoned in the trash can.
(refract.)
The concert crashes around him in swirls of glitter and sparkling swathes of colour. Streamers fall from the ceiling - another cascade of balloons - and Koichi can barely hear the music over the screams of the fans around him, though the beat thuds in his chest, reverberates like his heart magnified a thousand times.
He comes out of it dazed, reeling from the energy of the crowd and when he's escorted backstage through the hordes of girls that try to follow, it feels even further away from reality. He stumbles over a cable, almost pushed over by a group of giggling back-dancers - his age, only his age, but their brightly coloured costumes render him awkward and self conscious in his jeans and simple polo.
His glasses are smudged with fingerprints and foggy with the heat of seventeen thousand screaming fans; he's an intruder in this world.
Johnny comes to greet them himself: Koichi and his nervous mother, who can barely see for the stars in her eyes, a stray balloon clutched in her hand. He's incongruous in his neat pants and shirt, buttoned up primly so that Koichi feels a strange moment of kinship. It passes after a moment and Koichi, always quiet to the point of unnoticeable, slips a few metres away to watch the bustle of the crew, dressed in their matching t-shirts and speaking into walkie-talkies. They laugh and shout and move with such purposeful intent that he freezes and stares, wondering what it would be like to part of that-
-of this.
His mother comes up to him and takes his face in soft hands, leaning in to brush a kiss across his cheek. She's leaving him here for Golden Week, she says, for him to get acquainted with the industry. There's something almost apprehensive in the way her hands skim gentle across his shoulders - Koichi has to squash down the urge to clutch at her sleeve, but he's a big boy now so he follows Kitagawa-san silently.
A stolen glance over his shoulder - his mother is still watching but she smiles at him, motionless in the chaos.
"We'll buy anything you need," Johnny says and Koichi nods, too overwhelmed to be properly grateful.
"Thank you," he says belatedly, little louder than a whisper, but Johnny is already walking on ahead, his small, straight back disappearing into the riot of feathers and sequins. Koichi runs to follow but it feels as if he's falling further and further behind.
(outlier.)
Tsuyoshi has always been popular, easy going with quick wit, so there's a steady stream of classmates that come to visit him. They bring wilted flowers already dying from the gathering summer heat, handouts and chattery gossip: who got in trouble today, the results of a baseball game.
He's happy that they're here - there's only so many times he can read the same stack of magazines over and over again but a broken leg is still a broken leg. The summer sun shines through his window, brighter each day; he's almost resentful.
A week is a very long time but it's not long enough to mend a broken bone. He has crutches and a cast covered over with enthusiastic scribbles and long empty hours that used to be filled up with basketball. Tsuyoshi knows how to be charming, to smile in the right way that makes his less than stellar grades seem less important so he hides his crabbiness when at school or with friends, but at home he sulks and communicates in little more than disgruntled noises.
It's his father that comes up with the solution, remembered from teenaged days of long hair and embarrassing fashion. He rummages through the attic and digs up an old acoustic guitar, dusty, out of tune and housing a family of spiders. It needs new strings and a good cleaning but in time, he places it in Tsuyoshi's hands and slowly coaxes Tsuyoshi's fingers into position, fumbling clumsy new on the strings.
(exponential.)
"Kou-chan, Kou-chan~!"
The voice is incongruously loud in the early morning quiet of the dorms and there are no few angry mutters and thrown pillows as Nagase rampages through the hall, down to one particular room, and tumbles onto the bed, all boundless enthusiasm.
Koichi pulls the blankets over his head and pretends very hard that he's not there.
It doesn't work.
There's a few more muffled thumps when things are thrown against walls, but Koichi and Nagase barely hear them, tussling about on the bed. It ends when Koichi's wrapped up in a layer of blanket so tight that he can't even twitch his limbs, head and feet sticking out. His hair is a long, tousled mess and it's tickling his nose, damnit.
Nagase just laughs at him and brushes teasing fingers across the soles of his feet then there's more shrieking, flailing and threats of bodily harm. They've been best friends since the first moment, when Koichi had walked wide-eyed through the door and Nagase, open and friendly, had smiled at him.
Nagase leaves first, for photo shoots and interviews, always busy since TOKIO's debut but it's a rare late morning for Koichi. Debuted life, he thinks, seems like a lot of trouble and rolls out of bed in preparation for dance practice later in the day. There's rumours of a headliner concert in the works but Koichi refuses to get his hopes up - he can't even look straight at a camera without blushing.
It's been three long years since joining, from weekend lessons and multiple rides on the shinkansen every week to relocating up to the Tokyo dorms permanently. There'll be time, he thinks to himself, and doesn't think about Nagase leaving him behind.
Later at night when the dorm is loud with a few dozen adolescent boys all returned from various jobs, it's Nagase that coaxes Koichi to practice, indulgent despite the laughing half-serious protests and dramatic pout. He places guitar after guitar in Koichi's hands, old and expensive; Nagase strokes his fingers across them lovingly and makes them sing, loud and clear.
The guitars are nowhere near as graceful in Koichi's grasp. He fumbles the notes, clashing jumbled chords and slipped fingers - he'd learned slow and careful on camera for the sake of thousands of interested viewers. The expectations weigh heavy on him; he's to perform a song on air next week.
Nagase sits behind him, patiently positioning his hands and leads him slowly, slowly through a song, touching Koichi with just as much care.
(derivative.)
"Group date," Ryota says cajolingly, leaning over Tsuyoshi's desk with desperate, desperate eyes. "You have to come along, man, we're short on numbers."
"And you're popular," Masa adds with a snort from the next desk over, balanced precariously on the hind legs of his chair. "You'll definitely pick up."
Tsuyoshi rolls his eyes and kicks at Masa's chair sending him clattering down with a surprised squawk. "Not interested. I've got things to d-"
"Fujiwara from the basketball club's going to be there," Ryota interrupts with a smirk. "I told her you'd come."
Tsuyoshi pauses. Fujiwara Saeko from the basketball club, only a fraction shorter than him with a sweet voice and eyes that almost squint shut with the force of her smile. A little flighty, sure, but he likes the way she laughs at herself, how she's unafraid to look stupid.
A few hours later and they're all crammed into a karaoke booth, girls on one side, guys on the other. Tsuyoshi is jostled unsubtly by his friends until he's opposite Saeko and she smiles at him, genuinely glad.
"What do you want to sing?" she asks him, poking at the controls.
"Tsuyoshi's a muso," Masa singsongs spitefully and Tsuyoshi gives him a blank stare. "He busks at Nanba station~"
"Really?" Saeko asks, visibly charmed and Tsuyoshi turns to smile at her.
"Let's sing a duet."
They pick a power ballad, not quite a love song, and when they get the microphones there's a chorus of wolf whistles and tambourine shaking. Saeko's smile is incandescently bright but Tsuyoshi doesn't notice, focused as he is on the words.
Tsuyoshi can't hear her voice over his own.
(integral.)
"KOUCHAN~!" Nagase yells as he barrels through the door, recklessly flinging it open so it impacts with a thud against the wall.
Koichi squeaks and hastily ducks behind Inohara who laughs, turns and neatly catches him. "Naga-chan."
"High five," Nagase cheers, triumphantly accepting the hostage Koichi.
"Unfair," Koichi sulks, dangling limply in Nagase's arms like a rag doll. He looks accusingly at Inohara and bravely holds a mostly straight face.
"This is a democracy and majority rules." Inohara's grin is bright and unworried. "Sorry."
"Spoils," Nagase grins fiercely and shakes Koichi affectionately.
"Amnesty?" Koichi laughs a little helplessly, clutches at Nagase's forearms a touch giddy.
"Mmm, no."
Koichi sighs. Every line of his body indicates hopelessness except for the shadow of a grin in his squinty eyes. The MoritaMiyake pair, snuck in almost unnoticed behind Nagase's enthusiasm, snicker at him; he waggles his fingers sadly.
"Anyways," Nagase continues cheerfully, giving Koichi a quick squeeze. "Inocchi, glad we found you. Johnny-san wants to see you."
"Eh? I swear he doesn't know about the time I-"
"He wants to see us too," Miyake interrupts, unimpressed. "And Sakamoto and Nagano."
"Not Koichi?"
"He's mine," Nagase says with an exaggerated pout. "You can't have him."
Koichi wriggles disconsolately.
"Just us," Morita says with a shrug. "We should get going."
"Help?" Koichi shifts into a slightly more comfortable position, flopped over Nagase's arms.
"When we get back," Inohara promises with a wink. "Stay safe, we're going~" He high touches Nagase on the way out, knocking clenched fists.
*
"The five of us," Inohara says slowly, not a trace of a smile. "And another kid, they're bringing him up from Kansai. We're... we're..."
"We're debuting," Sakamoto says.
(reflect.)
Ten o'clock at night and Shinsaibashi has almost as many people crowding the undercover shopping strip as during the day. The tourists have mainly gone, the flocks of Korean speaking high schoolers on their school trips and loud English speakers, to be replaced by a more exotic breed.
Girls in tight dresses and elaborately coiffed hair, boys on just as much display with slinky shirts and bleached hair. Walking down, a half dozen people step out offering menus, companionship, more.
Tonight, there's four or so acts evenly spaced down a small section of the strip, the closed shutters of Daimaru behind them. They're only fifteen, twenty metres apart and the sound clashes strangely in between, a mix of pop and rock and the clear tones of an enka singer.
To Tsuyoshi's left, there's a girl - maybe eighteen, nineteen - dressed in something short and ruffled, uncaring of the night air. It's her and a microphone, the music playing from the speakers synthesised and boppy, incongruously happy. A small group of salary men crowd around her, dressed in ill fitting suits. They have their cell phones out and the flash of the cameras spark on and off like a strobe light.
In front of him there's a few people standing back, only half interested in the music. Their phones are out also but less faces are watching him than concentrating on their screens, fingers typing faster than his move on the frets. Minor, major, his hands slide up and down in practiced movements.
A little way away, there's two homeless men eating the remains of someone's dinner salvaged from the bins. They're smiling, sitting on flat cardboard boxes with their shoes kicked off, feet black with grime, long gnarled toenails. They set their boxes up, four each connected into long rectangular structures and crawl into them - like capsule hotels, coffins - sealed up with tape against the coming winter.
In the morning, they'll be gone.
Tsuyoshi watches them between songs, sings with his eyes open. His voice soars on the highs and trembles low, smoothly rolling vibrato. It echoes off the high roofs, bounces on the dirty tiled floors - scuffed black with phantom footprints.
(amplification.)
"Thank you," Koichi screams at the crowd, voice hoarse from hours of singing, scraped raw. Sweat stings his eyes, irritates his contacts and he blames that for the tears that refract the spotlights, warm and bright, into brilliant shards of light.
Three encores and the fans are still screaming, his name is light and sound and every single bone in his body aches. Three concerts, two days and he's sung and danced and shouted at the crowd, dizzy with laughter and adrenaline. His first headliner concerts, no plan for a CD yet but it's okay, maybe. It has to be okay.
Koichi stumbles offstage last, so tired that he can barely walk straight - there's a half dozen warm bodies around him and hands on his back. They guide him through the wings, and he can hear his own voice saying something, something, though understanding is a bit beyond him until they come upon a larger space where the rest of his back dancers and band are gathered.
'Congratulations,' someone yells first and the rest follow, an avalanche of noise and suddenly, there's hands on his legs and shoulders and then nothing at all when he's flung into the air to cheers and shouting, an echo of his name in a thousand voices ringing in his ears, so high that he flies.
(intercept.)
The shinkansen is quiet, foggy with condensation from the melted snow and warm bodies, crowded together.
A softly chatting young couple, hands daringly linked, sit with their heads close together. Young men and women with books and newspapers and mobile phones, all more interesting than their immediate surrounds. A business man, dark suit and briefcase on the shelf overhead, unwraps his lunch, the crinkle of plastic loud in the silence - store bought onigiri. Tsuyoshi hasn't eaten all day.
Tsuyoshi makes his cautious way down the train, suitcase abandoned at the luggage-racks near the door but cradling his precious guitar, trying hard not to knock it into anyone. The aisles are narrow, the seats wide and comfortable even though everyone is careful to keep their limbs out of the way. Japan is considerate like that.
He meets someone's eyes but neither of them smiles.
There's an empty seat left on the aisle. His seat mate sprawls bonelessly against the window, mouth slightly open. His neck is craned in an odd angle and he doesn't seem aware of the cold window beneath his cheek, though his breath fogs in expanding circles against it, soft and rhythmic. He's not snoring, but Tsuyoshi has his Walkman and has always been good at blocking out the world.
There's something familiar about him, the tilt of his chin and the line of his jaw; a bit too strong for conventional good looks, maybe, but a bit too delicate to be handsome, and there are heavy shadows around his eyes, bruised-looking and fragile. He can't think from where.
He dismisses it and pulls out a notebook and pen instead; there are things that are more important and a rush of words suddenly clamor in his mind, waiting to be let out.
Midway through the journey, lulled by the warmth and steady movement of the train, Tsuyoshi's eyes become heavy and his fingers lax, dropping his notebook onto his lap as he succumbs to sleep. His pen clatters to the floor and rolls away unnoticed.
The next thing he knows, it's Shinjuku station. A polite cough to his left wakes him and he glances over, slightly confused, to see the other boy... youth... something in between - they must be around the same age - next to him sitting up straight and smiling wide and sweet. His eyes almost disappear, crinkling, artlessly glad.
"Excuse me," the other youth says politely and then there's a scramble of knees and elbows, sharp angles and pointy hips as they attempt to maneuver around each other. Bulky winter coats and luggage and Tsuyoshi's guitar make it all a bit harder but they're out quick enough and Tsuyoshi watches as he rushes out of the train and down the platform. He has his cell phone out, sandwiched between shoulder and ear as he totes his luggage, but occasionally one hand flails enthusiastically in the air, emphatic gestures like the other person can see exactly what he's doing.
Tsuyoshi watches him until he's swallowed up by the crowd, too short to stand out.
He braves the crowd himself, a roiling sea of humanity, but feels lonelier buffeted by the voices in unfamiliar accents than ever before.
(gradient.)
The first press conference is loud and chaotic, crammed full of reporters from every possible news source and Koichi, still reeling from being told only last night what would be happening today, can barely see straight for the flashing lights. They stick him in the middle, a manager on either side and they field question after question.
Koichi's popular after all. It's hard not to be after half a dozen years in the spotlight, headliner concerts and dramas and now a CD release. A single. This is how Johnny's Entertainment works.
He freezes suddenly, wide eyed and blank in the face of dozens of cameras going off and his manager takes over, steps in quick and easy in an almost seamless transition. Koichi clutches his fists until his nails dig into his palms, little red crescents of grounding pain, and breathes in and out until he can remember to smile.
It's a bit easier on TV, when he knows they can edit out anything too bad. He goes on Utaban first, company loyalty, and SMAP are well-known and familiar. They've looked after him since before they debuted.
Nakai is louder on camera than off and he's already known for his sharp tongue and dark humour, but offstage he lets Koichi sit close enough to touch and strokes his hair like he's only twelve again, still too quiet and shy.
"You'll get there," Nakai tells him and punches him on the arm hard enough to hurt. Koichi gives him a shaky smile in response and they leave unspoken how long it had taken SMAP to hit their stride, the members that had left, how Okada had quietly dropped out of JE only months after debut.
His first single, mournful and minor key, hits number one on the charts at release and lingers in the top ten for weeks.
(noise.)
He stares at the card the scout handed him, plain white and embossed, heavy card-stock more like fabric than paper. It's a nice offer, a good offer, something his mother would say he would be crazy to turn down when it meant putting out a CD, magazine coverage, TV appearances if everything went well.
Tsuyoshi isn't stupid so he picks up the phone and punches in the number, one at a time, slow like the steady measure of his heart.
The next few weeks are a flurry of interviews and contract negotiations. There's countless hopefuls in the halls, staring huge eyed and wondering. He's miles away from them, jaded already when they're all probably the same age, played on the same street corners to the same audiences of uncaring businessmen and attentive homeless.
They tell him he needs to cut his hair, pluck his eyebrows, change his clothes and he nods, nods, nods since he's lost the words he wants to say, to sing.
He plays them one of his CDs, self produced. It's a cheap CD-R, printable white surface but he customises each one with thick black permanent marker and whimsical swirls of ink, makes it his own as much as anything can be. They play his CD in a sterile white room, modern art print block on the wall, the furniture blandly tasteful and murmur amongst themselves about his voice.
"This won't sell," one says disapprovingly. He can't tell the difference with their suits and severe hair.
"His voice, though..." another says and looks him up and down, a clinical specimen waiting beneath the scalpel. "We can do something about the rest."
"We can get one of the songwriting teams," yet another - or maybe it's the first one - offers and Tsuyoshi, hemmed in by their words and pinned by their dissecting gazes, can't say anything at all.
(hypothesis.)
The giant wooden tori of Meiji shrine looms above them, the tree lined path long leading to the actual temple and he's been here before, multiple times for press conferences and sightseeing trips, but it feels different today. Not just because of the presence of shrieking fans - balloted, only a fraction of the ones that had wanted to come - and the press that are snapping photo after photo.
Koichi's family stand a distance away, out of range of the cameras. He waves at them, distracted.
Nagase presses a large, warm reassuring hand to the back of his neck and Koichi grins up at him, tall and unexpectedly dignified in the pressed folds of his hakama and yukata. They're only a few months apart and they share the ceremony with Morita, Higashiyama mentoring proudly.
A cascade of flashes go off like fireworks as they walk in and out of the temple. Koichi isn't fazed and he takes the time to wave at a few of the louder fans, wincing internally as the screams get louder. They call him 'Prince' these days, like they call Higashiyama prince and Koichi tries his best to mimic the long elegant lines of his body and crisp movements.
Higashiyama takes them out afterwards for their first legal drink and Nakai sends them flowers and fruit baskets, much to their collective confusion. Others send congratulations and their phones beep almost continuously with emails all day long.
"So," Nagase says much later, when all the fuss has died down and they're sharing one last beer even though the illicit thrill of it has disappeared. "Does this mean we're responsible adults?"
"Yes," Koichi says solemnly though his eyes crinkle and he swallows a hiccup of a giggle.
It's Nagase that laughs first though, fierce and bright and he gathers Koichi up in a sloppy hug, shakes him with a bit too much power. "Never change," he orders and Koichi muffles a laugh against his shoulder, not promising anything.
(aim.)
Shibuya Station is always competitive for the best spots, even though there's no lack of people. Street lives are a dime a dozen and it's an entirely different vibe from laid-back Osaka, warmly eccentric. Tsuyoshi favours a spot in the square just outside, close enough that he could see the Hachiko statue - forever faithful - if the crowds ever dissipated.
He's built up a small but loyal fan base, even if the first recording offer hadn't panned out - the torn up contract is still pinned to his wall as a reminder to himself - and he has a part time job that pays the rent on the tiny one bedroom room he keeps off the JR Chuo line. He's even played a few small gigs, at festivals and little hole-in-the-wall clubs, barely squeezing in an audience of fifty but it's good.
It's what he wants.
On the way to work, he walks past a pet store and lingers to peer into the windows every week. There's always puppies and kittens, tiny little balls of fluff that tumble all over each other. Miniature dachshunds this time.
Tsuyoshi holds a hand up against the glass and one of them, butterscotch brown, leaps against it, paws scrabbling and tail wagging, mouth panting open in a friendly canine grin. He's cute and Tsuyoshi thinks for a wild moment about going inside and taking him home - it's pretty lonely living by himself, even if his wide circle of friends means he's almost never at home - but reality intervenes.
He couldn't afford it anyway.
Tsuyoshi checks his watch and hurries away before he's late. Behind him, the puppy whines and wags his tail, watching him go.
(parabola.)
"Concert MCs," Koichi tells the crowd seriously, "are a lot of trouble. Especially with just one person."
"Eeeeeh~?!" the audience choruses back at him and he makes a face at them.
"What do you mean 'EH?'" he demands. "I don't have anything to talk about."
The dome erupts into a flurry of shouting, 'ganbare' and 'anything is okay!!' and 'KOU-CHAN~!' and laughter, because Koichi's concerts - no matter how big the venue - have always felt small and intimate, the crowd shouting to his responses.
"Anything?" he repeats coyly, flashing a smile directly at the cameras that beam onto the big screens. The crowd shouts it approval.
"Well, then," he laughs and gestures expressively with his free hand. "Let me tell you about F1."
Unchecked, his MC goes on for almost half an hour, not quite a soliloquy but close enough that he wonders how different it would be if there were someone else on stage for him to talk to, someone that he could banter with instead of doing it alone.
(spread.)
The room is small but not dark - there's a large window facing north, thin glass that lets the weak winter sunshine stream in and keeps out none of the cold. It's a nice day, unclouded even though Tsuyoshi's breath fogs in front of him, a puff of white.
His heart is broken and unfairly, the world is fine.
Tsuyoshi falls in and out of love when the seasons change, swapping tumultuous relationships for heartbreak for dizzying heights of feeling. He means it each and every time, too much love to be contained so it spills out on blank paper with every frantic too-fast beat of his heart.
(abstract.)
"How about your love life?"
"Love life?" Domoto Koichi repeats, blinking hugely blank eyes at the interviewer. "Well," he says, drawing it out. He's tilting so far to the side in consideration that for a brief and worrying second, it looks as if he'll fall off the chair. "I'm too busy with work right now, aren't I?"
"Work?" the interviewer repeats, a muffled giggle in her voice. "Just work?"
"Of course I like girls!" He laughs silvery bright, eyes squinting shut as he peers past the camera at his manager, the various crew. "Why's everyone laughing?! But, well, right now the most important thing is my work. I'll get around to the rest of it later."
"You're not concerned," the interviewer asks archly and Koichi shakes his head, eyes still crinkled.
"I've never really understood love anyway."
(confounding factors.)
Tsuyoshi has been burned once before and he's in no hurry for it to happen again, especially when it's something as important as this.
"We like your sound," she had said to him, coming up to him after a small gig in a tiny club, smoke filled with wonderful acoustics. She'd handed him a card, deceptively innocuous, heavy white embossed cardstock and he can draw the parallels in his head already.
"Thanks," he'd said, taking it and scrutinising it carefully. It was from a label he already knew, one of the heavy weights famous for discovering new talent and transporting them from the streets- maybe not always in the top ten but for street musicians, but offered something even more important. For the first time in a long time, Tsuyoshi had felt a glimmer of hope.
He'd called, of course. Rejecting one offer meant that he'd be able to walk away from this one (probably) if it went sour and they'd let him meet producers and directors, his very own put together management team even before his signature was on the dotted line.
It all looks good, sounds good and they talk to him about using his own songs, perhaps with a little bit of rearrangement but nothing drastic. Nothing that would change it too much. He reads over the contract again and again, looking for loopholes and inconsistencies but there's nothing.
Tsuyoshi's heartbeat races and he feels almost dizzy, short of breath, tight bands around his chest but there's no chance of happiness without risk. He's come so far already.
The contract is fifty odd pages, flagged here and there by sticky notes and methodically, he signs each and every page.
(method.)
"Domoto Koichi," Nakai announces and Koichi comes out through the door, still a little awkward despite having been on the Utaban set more times than he can remember. He takes his seat amidst the applause and smiles, polished and professional.
"It's your five year debut this year, isn't it?" Nakai asks, launching straight into it.
"Congratulations," Taka-san chimes in, looking hopelessly amused by the entire Johnny's Jimusho.
"Maa, five years sounds like a very long time, doesn't it?" Koichi says helplessly.
"But you've been in the jimusho for a lot longer than that, haven't you?" Nakai prods mercilessly.
Koichi laughs. "I've been in the company for more than ten years now."
"You were... twelve when you joined?" Taka-san asks and shoots a look at Nakai. "So how old were you when-"
"Did you ever have any concerns about not debuting?" Nakai interrupts, and then pauses to wait for the laughter to die down. "Tokio, V6, they all debuted before you."
"Mmm," Koichi hums in agreement. "I had solo concerts and TV appearances but I thought if this continued to go on without a CD release, then it'd definitely be the end of me. Especially since I never had a group."
"It's quite unusual, isn't it, to debut solo," Taka-san asks.
"That's right," Koichi says with a little twist to his mouth. "So I thought for sure that there was something wrong." He laughs comfortably but there's a shadow in his voice.
"Is it lonely debuting solo?" Nakai asks. "Not that you'd know any other way but SMAP sometimes feels like a family but there's only one of you so..."
Koichi shrugs, the line of his mouth straight and serious. "For a little while, I was in J-friends which was a big group. It was a lot of fun but it's different. Less pressure because there's always someone there to support you. I think SMAP, and all the other debuted groups, are really wonderful like that." He trails off and smiles super bright, even though it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'd've liked to debut with at least a partner but I think this is fine too." He laughs lightly. "I have my staff and my band and back dancers. I don't think I can say I'm lonely unless I want them to cry. Or hurt me."
Nakai laughs with him even though his eyes are sharp and dissecting and quickly changes the topic.
(quantum.)
"Domoto Tsuyoshi with his first appearance, singing his newest song Panic Disorder," Tamori announces and looks harmlessly confused for a second, craning his head around to peer at the small group of pop stars gathered behind him.
They peer back politely, on the whole well trained from previous experience; sitting on the bench next to him, Tsuyoshi takes a moment to react. He blinks and looks wide eyed up at the faces staring down at him.
"Koichi-kun, any relation?" Tamori asks and Koichi, caught fiddling with a piece of shiny gold trim on the swish of skirts hanging low on his waist, looks up. His smile is perfect.
"No," he says. "We've never met."
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Poll Team What if - Parallel: nineteen moments from two lives half lived