Where It All Led (Gravitation fanfic)
Title is from "Blue Light of the Flame" by Dar Williams; lyrics are from "Bright Lights" by Carbon Leaf.
Step inside the lights beyond the shadow of our doubt.
And never find our way out,
We'll never find our way out,
We'll never find our way out of here again.
When their final concert ends, the afterwards is heralded by the same silence that fills the halls of NG after they finish an album; it’s the same quiet mourning that eclipses the space left between the footsteps in the practice rooms and the slow whir and thump of the janitors and their machines. There’s cheering, of course, and tears -- not from the band, but from their audience, screaming fangirls who are dressed like someone has died and like this a funeral, a funeral will be followed by some sort of contest.
What it would be for, Shuichi can’t tell. They screamed at him as he sang, reached their hands up to him as he performed. No bras on the stage, thankfully; that seemed to be something reserved for the American crowds.
At the time, K had just laughed and laughed. “Now that’s a souvenir of your time in the States, Shindo-san,” he had roared, clutching his sides, one hand dangerously close to his gun. They all backed away as the blond man had shaken his head, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’ll have to tell Judy,” K said, his shoulders still trembling. “I wonder if any of these is her size…”
Now, however, even K is quiet. He watched them, one hand fingering his gun reflectively, as they obediently filed off stage in order to return for an encore, then another, and finally a third. There’s no forth, but the band walks out again after the stadium is empty, and he waits for them, able to hear their words but not see their faces.
It feels wrong, somehow, so he waves over a guard and asks him about how security went during the show.
---
“It was a good concert, Shu,” Hiro says, his voice subdued. He’s still holding his guitar, clutching it gently in steady fingers, frozen in place.
Shuichi nods, his own hands wrapped tightly around his microphone. He looks at Hiro, feeling the same inability to let go, and then at Suguru. The younger man is detached from them, distant even now that it doesn’t matter anymore, his fingers running lightly, obsessively over his keyboard. He isn’t watching them, but glancing back and forth between the keys and the empty seats instead.
“I know.” His voice is harsh and he coughs, once, then again. Hiro rests a calming hand between his shoulder blades as the sounds continue into a string, shattering in the severe atmosphere of the venue. “I just wonder, sometimes, you know…”
Shuichi doesn’t finish the sentence, but the words don‘t have to be said. They jump between his back and Hiro’s palm, drift through the air to make Suguru’s fingers clench spasmodically, a clanking buzz jerked from the keyboard as his hands twitch over it.
“Sorry,” he says, meeting purple and gray eyes as the sound lingers. With it, the wrong notes carry the words back to K, making him shiver as they wrap around his gun hand. The movement carries them back to Tohma and Eiri, further backstage, pleasure and disappointment mixed in their minds.
“S’okay, Fujisaki-kun,” Shuichi tells him. He lets go of the microphone with one hand and rakes his free fingers through his styled hair. They come back streaked with sweat and gel and glitter, and he wipes them unthinkingly on the vest of his stage costume.
Suguru nods, apparently satisfied. Five years later, they still don’t call him by his given name, and they’ve all come to accept that. It’s not a matter of not being able to, but simply that the moment has never been right. Now that they’ve run out of time, the moment will never be wrong, but that doesn’t make it easier.
They stand there, reflective, for a few more minutes, connected by the line that’s been pulling at them since they were teenagers. Severing it was a group effort, eventually -- a moment of pressure, here and there, from Suguru’s parents, the slow dawning that Yuuji’s life is not what Hiro wants for himself, one walk between the different recording studios of NG that slowly expanded until Shuichi was spending more time with other bands than with his own.
The knowledge that Ryuichi was doing the same thing, the gradual understanding that Tohma was watching, the sharp awareness that they were the only ones who were surprised when it all came together to split apart.
The slow insight that five years is a long time, and that they’re all growing up.
“When are you leaving for America, Suguru?” Hiro’s voice carries through the large room, surprisingly steady.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, then a release as he answers. “The end of July,” the green-haired man says. “Tohma has already contacted some of his pianist friends there for me.” That he’s been accepted into a prestigious university is left unsaid; while it may be embarrassingly late, his parents seem to believe that it’s better late than never. He’s had his fun, and now… now it’s time to think of his future, or of theirs. It’s never really been specified, and Suguru hasn’t asked.
“You’re going to see so many things!” A note of excitement has come back into Shuichi’s voice, and he turns to face his companions, throwing his arms wide for emphasis. The microphone that he continues to hold crackles warningly, but he ignores it as he gestures to makes his point. “You’d better keep in touch!”
That makes the others smile, Suguru more shyly than Hiro, whose palm lingers on his friend’s back. “You do,” the redhead agrees. His own parents don’t share the same sentiment as Suguru’s; instead, they’ve temporarily turned their attention back to their no-good actor son. He knows that he won’t be totally back into their graces until they see him in a white coat, clipboard in hand -- they’ve failed enough with him that they won’t believe that they’ve succeeded until he’s actually made it. “What about you, Shu?”
Shuichi has finally lowered his arms, and he shakes his head. “Yuki and I decided to wait until he has another book tour that takes him overseas,” he admits, looking only slightly upset. Suddenly, he brightens. “That way, I can keep Yuuuuuki company while he has to deal with those awful fangirls! Do they throw bras at authors, too? I keep asking him, but he won’t say!”
Even Suguru has to laugh at that. “I don’t know,” he admits when Hiro can’t get the words out. “I guess that you’ll just have to go along and protect him from them, anyway.”
“Besides,” the singer continues. “Ryuichi has asked me to record a song with him, as part of his solo deal.” The stars in his eyes are visible even in the sterile light of the after-show clean-up preparations. They all know that nothing short of becoming mute or dying will keep Shuichi from singing, with or without a band - with or without Bad Luck.
They’re still smiling from the idea of Yuki being pelted with bras by adoring fans when the author himself walks out from backstage, lit cigarette burning cherry against his pale hand. “Are you ready, brat?” he demands, golden eyes cool. “The janitors are starting to ask when you people will get going.”
“Yuuuuuuuki!” Shuichi launches himself at his lover, the other man swearing as he tries to keep from burning the smaller man and still remain standing. In his exuberance, Shuichi shoves them both backstage, and Hiro finds himself left alone with Suguru.
“I guess that we should leave before they throw us out or before Shuichi and Yuki-san damage their décor too badly,” Hiro says, and glances at Suguru. The younger man nods, and they walk backstage together. They both take a quick glimpse backward as they do so, trying to burn the picture of the venue into their minds.
“Are you going home on your motorbike?” Suguru asks quietly, nodding solemnly at K as they pass him.
“Great show, guys!” the American says, flashing them two thumbs up before he returns to a conversation with a security guard.
“I thought that I’d go to a few clubs first,” Hiro admits. “Do you want to come?” he asks, but the other is already shaking his head.
“I’m going home with Tohma. We still have plans that need to be finalized,” Suguru answers.
“All right.”
They walk, not speaking, through the halls that wind between the stage and their dressing rooms. Shuichi and Yuki have already disappeared into one, apparently, from the noises that they can hear. Hiro winces, amused, and Suguru wrinkles his nose. “Maybe they think that it’s their last chance to get it on in a dressing room?” the redhead suggests, and his companion chuckles.
“They’ve never needed motivation like that before,” he points out. “Besides… it’s not.”
The words bring their conversation to an abrupt halt, painfully true and awkward. For them, this might have been their last chance, but for Shuichi, it is not. As crude as it appears, the reality of it cannot be avoided. Hiro tries to smile but the attempt is sideways, crooked, and his hair falls over his face as he does it.
“Maybe we’ll just have to call it a vacation?”
“Maybe,” Suguru says, doubtful, and pauses. The real goodbyes have already been said at the studio, on the nights that the band has gone out together, in the final party thrown for them by NG, but this - the ending formality - is still painful. He bows to Hiro and, after a second, the other reciprocates. It feels ridiculous, both of them sweaty and barely half-dressed, but that doesn’t seem to matter.
“I’ll give you a call before you leave,” Hiro promises, and the other man nods. “Good luck.”
“Good luck to you, as well, Hiro-kun,” Suguru replies, and then walks into his dressing room.
They both know that the other will not be waiting when they come out, and as they listen to the banging on the walls and to the hum of the cleaning machines, they each get ready a little slower than usual to assure themselves that they will be leaving alone.
Whatever they decide to call it, it is unavoidably an ending.
This fic doesn't feel right to me, so much so that it hasn't been added to my masterlist yet, but I can't quite put my finger on the problem. Comments/critiques?
Step inside the lights beyond the shadow of our doubt.
And never find our way out,
We'll never find our way out,
We'll never find our way out of here again.
When their final concert ends, the afterwards is heralded by the same silence that fills the halls of NG after they finish an album; it’s the same quiet mourning that eclipses the space left between the footsteps in the practice rooms and the slow whir and thump of the janitors and their machines. There’s cheering, of course, and tears -- not from the band, but from their audience, screaming fangirls who are dressed like someone has died and like this a funeral, a funeral will be followed by some sort of contest.
What it would be for, Shuichi can’t tell. They screamed at him as he sang, reached their hands up to him as he performed. No bras on the stage, thankfully; that seemed to be something reserved for the American crowds.
At the time, K had just laughed and laughed. “Now that’s a souvenir of your time in the States, Shindo-san,” he had roared, clutching his sides, one hand dangerously close to his gun. They all backed away as the blond man had shaken his head, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’ll have to tell Judy,” K said, his shoulders still trembling. “I wonder if any of these is her size…”
Now, however, even K is quiet. He watched them, one hand fingering his gun reflectively, as they obediently filed off stage in order to return for an encore, then another, and finally a third. There’s no forth, but the band walks out again after the stadium is empty, and he waits for them, able to hear their words but not see their faces.
It feels wrong, somehow, so he waves over a guard and asks him about how security went during the show.
---
“It was a good concert, Shu,” Hiro says, his voice subdued. He’s still holding his guitar, clutching it gently in steady fingers, frozen in place.
Shuichi nods, his own hands wrapped tightly around his microphone. He looks at Hiro, feeling the same inability to let go, and then at Suguru. The younger man is detached from them, distant even now that it doesn’t matter anymore, his fingers running lightly, obsessively over his keyboard. He isn’t watching them, but glancing back and forth between the keys and the empty seats instead.
“I know.” His voice is harsh and he coughs, once, then again. Hiro rests a calming hand between his shoulder blades as the sounds continue into a string, shattering in the severe atmosphere of the venue. “I just wonder, sometimes, you know…”
Shuichi doesn’t finish the sentence, but the words don‘t have to be said. They jump between his back and Hiro’s palm, drift through the air to make Suguru’s fingers clench spasmodically, a clanking buzz jerked from the keyboard as his hands twitch over it.
“Sorry,” he says, meeting purple and gray eyes as the sound lingers. With it, the wrong notes carry the words back to K, making him shiver as they wrap around his gun hand. The movement carries them back to Tohma and Eiri, further backstage, pleasure and disappointment mixed in their minds.
“S’okay, Fujisaki-kun,” Shuichi tells him. He lets go of the microphone with one hand and rakes his free fingers through his styled hair. They come back streaked with sweat and gel and glitter, and he wipes them unthinkingly on the vest of his stage costume.
Suguru nods, apparently satisfied. Five years later, they still don’t call him by his given name, and they’ve all come to accept that. It’s not a matter of not being able to, but simply that the moment has never been right. Now that they’ve run out of time, the moment will never be wrong, but that doesn’t make it easier.
They stand there, reflective, for a few more minutes, connected by the line that’s been pulling at them since they were teenagers. Severing it was a group effort, eventually -- a moment of pressure, here and there, from Suguru’s parents, the slow dawning that Yuuji’s life is not what Hiro wants for himself, one walk between the different recording studios of NG that slowly expanded until Shuichi was spending more time with other bands than with his own.
The knowledge that Ryuichi was doing the same thing, the gradual understanding that Tohma was watching, the sharp awareness that they were the only ones who were surprised when it all came together to split apart.
The slow insight that five years is a long time, and that they’re all growing up.
“When are you leaving for America, Suguru?” Hiro’s voice carries through the large room, surprisingly steady.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, then a release as he answers. “The end of July,” the green-haired man says. “Tohma has already contacted some of his pianist friends there for me.” That he’s been accepted into a prestigious university is left unsaid; while it may be embarrassingly late, his parents seem to believe that it’s better late than never. He’s had his fun, and now… now it’s time to think of his future, or of theirs. It’s never really been specified, and Suguru hasn’t asked.
“You’re going to see so many things!” A note of excitement has come back into Shuichi’s voice, and he turns to face his companions, throwing his arms wide for emphasis. The microphone that he continues to hold crackles warningly, but he ignores it as he gestures to makes his point. “You’d better keep in touch!”
That makes the others smile, Suguru more shyly than Hiro, whose palm lingers on his friend’s back. “You do,” the redhead agrees. His own parents don’t share the same sentiment as Suguru’s; instead, they’ve temporarily turned their attention back to their no-good actor son. He knows that he won’t be totally back into their graces until they see him in a white coat, clipboard in hand -- they’ve failed enough with him that they won’t believe that they’ve succeeded until he’s actually made it. “What about you, Shu?”
Shuichi has finally lowered his arms, and he shakes his head. “Yuki and I decided to wait until he has another book tour that takes him overseas,” he admits, looking only slightly upset. Suddenly, he brightens. “That way, I can keep Yuuuuuki company while he has to deal with those awful fangirls! Do they throw bras at authors, too? I keep asking him, but he won’t say!”
Even Suguru has to laugh at that. “I don’t know,” he admits when Hiro can’t get the words out. “I guess that you’ll just have to go along and protect him from them, anyway.”
“Besides,” the singer continues. “Ryuichi has asked me to record a song with him, as part of his solo deal.” The stars in his eyes are visible even in the sterile light of the after-show clean-up preparations. They all know that nothing short of becoming mute or dying will keep Shuichi from singing, with or without a band - with or without Bad Luck.
They’re still smiling from the idea of Yuki being pelted with bras by adoring fans when the author himself walks out from backstage, lit cigarette burning cherry against his pale hand. “Are you ready, brat?” he demands, golden eyes cool. “The janitors are starting to ask when you people will get going.”
“Yuuuuuuuki!” Shuichi launches himself at his lover, the other man swearing as he tries to keep from burning the smaller man and still remain standing. In his exuberance, Shuichi shoves them both backstage, and Hiro finds himself left alone with Suguru.
“I guess that we should leave before they throw us out or before Shuichi and Yuki-san damage their décor too badly,” Hiro says, and glances at Suguru. The younger man nods, and they walk backstage together. They both take a quick glimpse backward as they do so, trying to burn the picture of the venue into their minds.
“Are you going home on your motorbike?” Suguru asks quietly, nodding solemnly at K as they pass him.
“Great show, guys!” the American says, flashing them two thumbs up before he returns to a conversation with a security guard.
“I thought that I’d go to a few clubs first,” Hiro admits. “Do you want to come?” he asks, but the other is already shaking his head.
“I’m going home with Tohma. We still have plans that need to be finalized,” Suguru answers.
“All right.”
They walk, not speaking, through the halls that wind between the stage and their dressing rooms. Shuichi and Yuki have already disappeared into one, apparently, from the noises that they can hear. Hiro winces, amused, and Suguru wrinkles his nose. “Maybe they think that it’s their last chance to get it on in a dressing room?” the redhead suggests, and his companion chuckles.
“They’ve never needed motivation like that before,” he points out. “Besides… it’s not.”
The words bring their conversation to an abrupt halt, painfully true and awkward. For them, this might have been their last chance, but for Shuichi, it is not. As crude as it appears, the reality of it cannot be avoided. Hiro tries to smile but the attempt is sideways, crooked, and his hair falls over his face as he does it.
“Maybe we’ll just have to call it a vacation?”
“Maybe,” Suguru says, doubtful, and pauses. The real goodbyes have already been said at the studio, on the nights that the band has gone out together, in the final party thrown for them by NG, but this - the ending formality - is still painful. He bows to Hiro and, after a second, the other reciprocates. It feels ridiculous, both of them sweaty and barely half-dressed, but that doesn’t seem to matter.
“I’ll give you a call before you leave,” Hiro promises, and the other man nods. “Good luck.”
“Good luck to you, as well, Hiro-kun,” Suguru replies, and then walks into his dressing room.
They both know that the other will not be waiting when they come out, and as they listen to the banging on the walls and to the hum of the cleaning machines, they each get ready a little slower than usual to assure themselves that they will be leaving alone.
Whatever they decide to call it, it is unavoidably an ending.
This fic doesn't feel right to me, so much so that it hasn't been added to my masterlist yet, but I can't quite put my finger on the problem. Comments/critiques?