Fic: Once More, With Feeling (for jazzy_peaches)

[redpocket]

Author/Artist: anjenue
For: jazzy_peaches
Title: Once More, With Feeling
Characters: Tezuka/Oshitari/Atobe
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters are property of Konomi.
Warnings: Rock band AU. Some voyeurism, first-time sex, rimming.

Summary: Tezuka thought he had left the world of professional music far behind him, but when Atobe and Oshitari make an unexpected appearance in his life, he is forced to reevaluate the things he holds most important.
Notes: ~36,000 words.



'Tezuka-san?'

Tezuka looked up from his book, setting down his cup of tea. His roommate poked her head around the door jamb, looking busy and perplexed. 'There are two gentlemen here to see you.'

Tezuka raised a brow. 'To see me?' he repeated, incredulous.

'That's what I said.' She shrugged, adjusting her glasses. 'They insisted they were here to see Tezuka Kunimitsu, and when I asked if they were fans of yours or something, the shorter one said in a manner of speaking. So....'

Tezuka sighed. His fans knew by now that he wasn't the sort of author who cheerfully signed autographs while discussing the plot thread of his newest book, and then thanked his fans over and over again for supporting him. Instead, he would listen quietly while they raved at him, bow politely and give brief, cursory thanks, and then leave as quickly as possible. He had developed quite a reputation for it, in fact, and while it didn't stop people from approaching him, they at least weren't surprised when he gave them exactly what they had been expecting.

But they knew better than to come to his house. The only people he ever saw at home were his roommate and his family and, occasionally, a friend or two, though those visits were becoming rarer and rarer as his friends moved on with their lives and careers and started coming back to Tokyo with increasing infrequency.

Had he lived alone, he would have just ignored anyone who interrupted him during writing hours, but it wasn't fair to ask his roommate to deal with them. Which meant that he had to go be social now, at least for as long as it took to kick them out.

'Thank you, Miyana-san,' he said tiredly. 'I shall be right out.'

She disappeared back into her own room with a murmur of good luck, and Tezuka grimaced. He supposed that the quicker he got rid of the interlopers, the quicker he could get back to his writing, so he stood, slipping his pen behind his ear, briefly smoothed out the wrinkles from his shirt, and stalked out into the parlour, a polite but firm dismissal already on the tip of his tongue.

And froze, stomach dropping.

While he wasn't the sort of person to really pay attention to his fans, he knew what they tended to look like, and this wasn't it. Nor was this the type of person whose company he kept or would ever keep voluntarily. First of all, he was in an income bracket that most certainly did not permit suits of that quality, and second, the expressions on their faces pegged them as belonging to one of two possible professions. And since Tezuka had serious doubts that the yakuza would have any interest in florid romance, however racy it might be, that left only one possibility.

Which, to be honest, was even worse.

'Tezuka-san.' One of the gentlemen turned, fixing Tezuka with a sharp stare that made Tezuka feel like he was being sized up, and then smirked, flicking a lock of silvery hair back from his face. 'So it is true - you have turned to a life of drudgery and purple prose.'

'Atobe!' hissed the other, shooting the first man - Atobe - a meaningful glance. Tezuka couldn't say he blamed him - an insult was hardly a way to recommend oneself to a complete stranger. Part of him was insulted, but for the most part, his thoughts were less simply occupied. This Atobe spoke as if he knew Tezuka from somewhere, and Tezuka was positive that wasn't the case, since he would have remembered someone with such a singular look. Regardless, it left him with a sense of unrest, and he pulled himself up a bit straighter, resisting the urge to fold his arms as Atobe had done.

'Our apologies,' said the second man, smiling at Tezuka in a way that made Tezuka feel vaguely dirty and even more on edge. 'We did not mean to offend. We simply came here to speak with you.'

Tezuka found his voice. 'What about?' he asked briskly. He wasn't feeling particularly charitable or hospitable at the moment, and, on the off chance that they were here for what he hoped they weren't, the quicker he could get rid of them, the better.

The second man seemed to recognise his impatience, because he continued without preamble. 'My name is Oshitari Yuushi,' he said, 'and this is Atobe Keigo. We're the founding members of a band called Tannhäuser, and we're here because--'

'You're a far better drummer than you could ever be a writer,' Atobe cut in, tapping his fingers against his bicep. 'You're deluding yourself if you think otherwise.'

'Atobe--'

'Was,' Tezuka bit out before Oshitari could continue. He'd heard enough. They were in fact musicians, though of what sort he couldn't say for certain, and they had somehow managed to connect his name with the Tezuka Kunimitsu who'd played drums for an up-and-coming rock band an entire lifetime ago. It was a rude awakening to find that even now, ancient history could catch up to him in so unpleasant a fashion. He thought about denying it - he could have, in fact, since he wasn't the same person he'd been then, fifteen and invincible and ready to take on the world - but he had a feeling that Atobe would not be so easily dissuaded.

'Still are,' Atobe countered. 'You can't possibly have forgotten enough about drumming to make it break even with your writing. I can't say I understand why you voluntarily gave up your night job. Even if Samurai E went on without you, you still could have--'

'I don't play anymore,' Tezuka interrupted him in that same quiet, even tone, though it was a struggle to keep it that way. This wasn't just a rude awakening - it was also just plain rude. Atobe was pushing each and every one of his buttons all at once, and it was all Tezuka could do not to snap at him. Musicians had such a sense of entitlement that it made Tezuka sick, and it was times like these that he was glad he wasn't one anymore.

'And why the hell not?'

'Atobe.' Oshitari finally touched his shoulder, a forceless restraint, and Atobe snorted and turned his back, walking to the window in obvious, palpable disgust. Oshitari sighed, looking after him, and then turned back to Tezuka with a sheepish smile.

'It's true that we are here to speak to you about considering coming out of retirement,' he said. 'We realise that you have a thriving career and that it's quite inconvenient timing, but it can't wait. We're about to record our first studio album, and the drummer we've been using for shows is somewhat--'

'He's a talentless hack,' Atobe said from across the room without turning around.

Oshitari adjusted his glasses. 'He doesn't meld well with the sound we're attempting to create,' he corrected tactfully. 'I have to admit that I have never heard you play, but Atobe assures me that it's exactly what we're looking for, and also that you are remarkably talented. Judging from Samurai E's sound, I'd have to agree with the former point, and I have no doubt about the latter.'

He leaned forward a bit as if imparting some great secret. 'After all, I think your books are excellent.'

'That is because you are a sentimental idiot,' said Atobe, somehow managing to overhear. Tezuka glared at him, but he just smirked, flicking his hair from his face again as he stalked back over.

'Look, Tezuka,' he said, tone businesslike. 'I need a drummer and you need a better job. You can't possibly like what you're doing right now, and I know that because nobody could actually enjoy writing trashy romances. Even Oshitari wouldn't enjoy writing them, for all that he devours them like they're Belgian chocolate.' Oshitari snorted, but Atobe ignored him. 'So it's a mutually beneficial arrangement. That's all. It shouldn't require copious deliberation.'

'It doesn't,' Tezuka replied coldly. 'My answer is still no.'

'For god's sake, Tezuka,' Atobe snapped, 'you're not a writer. You are a drummer. That's your calling. Nobody can be good at everything.'

'Except yourself, I suppose,' Tezuka retorted, narrowing his eyes. He'd had just about enough of this pompous peacock and his drawling little toady. If they thought this was good recruitment technique, they were sorely mistaken.

'Not true,' Oshitari interrupted before Atobe could say a word. 'No matter how hard he tries, his tennis game is pathetic. But please reconsider, Tezuka-san,' he went on, speaking over Atobe's furious sound of protest. 'I know you're a writer now, and that you're very good at what you do. But Atobe said that when you played, before, you always looked like there was nowhere else in the world you would rather be.'

Surprisingly, Atobe didn't choose that moment to chime in with a disparaging remark, and Tezuka had a harder time being snippy with Oshitari, since at least he was trying to be civil. While he was, in general, hostile to the whole idea, since he had left music behind for a reason (a very good reason, in fact), he couldn't deny that there was truth to what Oshitari had said. To what both of them had said. Tezuka wasn't a brilliant writer, and he knew it. He was good, and he had all the technical aspects down, and he was able to structure a story with exactly the right pacing and build-up to have thousands of women sighing, but he lacked passion for it. It was a way to pay the rent, nothing more. He had been saving up to go back to school, possibly obtain a medical degree, but that was still years away at this rate, and this job supported him well enough in the interim. But it was just that - an interim job.

Tezuka had gotten very good at suppressing his feelings about what he was doing versus what he could be doing. As a teenager, he'd been full of drive with the world as his oyster, but now, ten years older and a whole lot wiser, he knew that determination wasn't everything. Sometimes it just wasn't meant to be, and he'd had to learn how to accept that. But on the very rare occasion when the disappointment at his failure to make something of himself overtook his willpower, he pulled his drumsticks out from under his mattress, twirled them between his fingers, remembered what it felt like to have the kit vibrating beneath beside around him. But he always put them back straightaway. That was his old life, this was his new life, and there was no point dwelling. But Oshitari was right - when he was drumming, there was no other place in the world he wanted to be. No matter what had happened since then, that wouldn't be any less true.

And that was why he didn't do it anymore.

'You don't have to answer now,' Oshitari said. 'Just...think about it. We start recording next Sunday.' He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Tezuka. 'If you change your mind, this is our manager's card.'

Tezuka looked at it. Sakaki Tarou, it said. Hyoutei Entertainment. There was a phone number and an email address, and beneath that, a street address scribbled in pencil. Tezuka raised a brow, but said nothing, dropping his arm to his side.

Oshitari smiled again. 'I look forward to reading your next book,' he said.

'Oh, please.' Atobe rolled his eyes, stalking forward and giving Oshitari a push. Oshitari bowed his head to Tezuka, then headed toward the door, but Atobe hung back, fixing Tezuka with a penetrating look.

'Don't be a fool,' he said. 'You were the most talented in that band and yet you let Echizen take the spotlight and Fuji write all the songs. You're better than that, and you know it.'

He bowed his head as well, somehow managing to make it look like a mockery of etiquette, and then slipped out through the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

Tezuka sighed, looking at the card again. It was pointless to consider this anyway, he thought, raising his free hand to his shoulder. He hadn't touched a kit in ten years, hadn't been willing to risk it, and now they were trying to get him on board to record a full album? The whole idea was preposterous, and he really shouldn't have been considering it at all, especially not with deadlines and rent to pay and responsibilities to his family, never mind to himself. But something stayed his hand, kept him from ripping the card in two, and he slipped it into his shirt pocket instead before heading back toward his room.

Miyana-san looked up as he walked past and into his own room. 'What was that about?' she asked curiously, leaning just out into the hallway.

Tezuka managed a smile. 'Wrong Tezuka,' he said, and shut the door.

+

This was ridiculous.

Tezuka tugged on his shirt again, uncomfortable. He didn't know what had come over him. He wasn't impulsive, and he wasn't social, and he certainly wasn't the sort to decide Friday evening to go out Friday night to a part of town he'd never been to to see a concert by a band he had no desire to have anything to do with. Moreover, he never told his roommate about his plans, and now he was starting to see why it was such a bad idea. For a conservative young woman, she had shocking taste in fashion. He was starting to wonder how much shounen-ai manga she read, but that was something to be filed under Facts About His Roommate He Did Not Want To Know.

He supposed it was for the best though. After the visit by Atobe and Oshitari three days ago, Tezuka had tried to put it from his mind, and had failed so miserably that he'd gotten nothing written since then. What he had managed to get down on paper was far worse than the usual drivel, and he'd had to ball up the paper and fling it across the room as a show of his utter disgust. The frustration had kept him awake at night, and had only compounded itself, until that morning, when he'd very nearly written a scene where he'd killed off the hero just so he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

Taking a break was probably a wise course of action.

But why he'd decided to do this was beyond him. It was pure morbid curiosity that had made him borrow his roommate's computer to Google "Tannhäuser", and then, after scrolling through pages about Wagner and a Medieval poet and some twisted-looking board game, "Tannhäuser and Hyoutei", which had given him a mostly-black page with a stylised logo and a coming soon note. Tezuka didn't know much about marketing, but he thought he'd read somewhere that providing as little information as possible left the public frothing for more. It left Tezuka frothing with frustration, not so much at the lack of information as at the waste of time.

He'd been about to turn off the computer when the page had suddenly reloaded itself - time delay, or something - and presented an advertisement for a concert, that night, at a smallish venue in Shibuya. At ¥3,500 a ticket, he'd almost decided against it then and there, but something, yet again, had stopped him.

Which was why he now found himself wandering the streets of Tokyo's biggest red light district.

It made him feel slightly less uncomfortable to feel the music pounding through the walls of several of the buildings he passed. The air vibrated with music as well as sex, and while the latter was enough to make him keep his head down as he put one foot in front of the other, the former grounded him, centred him, made his footsteps rhythmic and purposeful as he stalked forward in search of the Liquid Room. He also had to admit that he was grateful to Miyana-san for helping him dress. His usual attire would have made him stick out even more, and, in a place like this, that was the last thing he wanted.

He finally found the place, and then almost turned around and left, again, when he realised that the club was on the seventh floor. But he'd come this far, and, despite appearances, Tezuka was not one to give up once he'd set his mind to something. He climbed the seven flights of stairs, bought his ticket at the door, then squeezed his way past a few indecently attired and even more indecently occupied couples to the bar, where he ordered an Asahi Black - something to do with his hands, and to take the edge off his edginess at being here in the first place.

He was early enough that it wasn't terribly crowded yet, so he picked a spot in a dark corner (of which there were no shortage) and watched the crowd. From what he'd read about the venue, the typical clubgoers were classier than the norm, and the music tended to be new wave verging on electronica. With a name like Tannhäuser, the genre sounded about right - either that or some industrial/house mélange - and while he couldn't say that he was especially fond of that type of music, he was intrigued as to why Atobe and Oshitari had thought his style would fit their sound. Not that that was why he was at the concert, or anything - it was just something to do on a Friday night, and he had to admit to being curious.

Naturally it was that curiosity that had him watching so closely as the stagehands finished setting up the stage, arranging everything just so, pulling cords out of the way to give freedom of mobility without creating a risk of trippage, adjusting the microphones - Tezuka hid a chuckle in his bottle as he noticed the difference in height between the keyboardist's microphone and the lead guitarist's, which had to be at least thirty centimetres - and, of course, testing everything to make sure the volume balance was acceptable. While his attention was captured, though, the people milling about started to pack in toward the stage, talking loudly and laughing and dancing to the tinned electronica coming through the overhead speakers, and the sudden surge in energy in the room, coupled with the dimming lights now flashing in reds and violets, overwhelmed Tezuka completely with memory.

The very first concert Tezuka had ever played, he'd been fourteen years old, and they'd been playing in front of a crowd of bored bargoers at three o'clock in the afternoon in the middle of summer vacation. It had been hazy with smoke, the air smelling of old beer and yesterday's sweat, and their only lighting had been the dim afternoon sunlight filtering in through grimy windows. It had taken three weeks' allowance from all four of them to afford the fee for the stage, but it had felt so good to be able to play in public that it had been absolutely worth it.

The audience, of course, had looked at them askance - a twelve year old lead singer and three fourteen-year-old instrumentalists could never pull off something as huge as rock music - and then had simply just looked as they acknowledged that yes, Samurai E was good. And as they'd bled from one song into the next, not even pausing to vamp because the music spoke for itself, more and more people had started to filter in, from off the streets, to watch them. It had only been an eight-song set, but by the end of it, the bar had been half-packed, and the manager had come up to them afterward and begged them to play that Friday night.

Everything exploded from there.

Whether it was the novelty of children playing rock, or the complexity of the music, or the introspectiveness of the lyrics, or the sheer talent they exhibited, their shows continued to pack the venue, sometimes selling out in as little as ten minutes once they finally got around to capitalising on their success and selling tickets. A rough demo CD made hastily in Tezuka's garage sold out all fifty copies in a matter of minutes, with pleas for more. (A week later, Tezuka saw one of those CDs selling for ¥5000 on eBay.) On his fifteenth birthday, he'd received his first pair of panties, tossed at him by a particularly excited teenager with long plaits and a very short skirt, and from then on they'd kept on coming, sometimes interspersed with bras and the occasional sock. (Japanese girls were extremely strange.) Echizen, of course, had gotten most of the attention, and he'd eaten it up with that calm little smirk of his; Oishi had been flustered, blushing and hiding behind his mic, and Fuji had just kept on smiling because that's what Fuji did, but Tezuka for the most part had just ignored it. He wasn't playing for the attention, after all - he was playing because he had something to say, and that was how he said it.

While it wasn't the fans he cared about, it was the electricity crackling in the air before a show that kept him coming back, and the sheer power filling the air with every reverberation of Oishi's bass or crack of Tezuka's snare or wave of Fuji's synths or shimmering note drawn out in Echizen's clear tenor that kept him going on nothing but passion and adrenaline until the end of the night. That was what he dreamed about that made him wake smiling the next morning; that was what he craved when he slipped his sticks out of his pocket and clicked them together to count them into their first song; that was what he carried with him day and night, no matter what happened.

That was what he'd missed most since leaving it behind.

And that was what he was feeling now, the air practically vibrating with anticipation as the crowd pushed forward against the front of the stage, watching, waiting for that first note, the lifeblood of any concert, to come crashing down upon their heads like a typhoon. Part of Tezuka felt so bitter that it was for them and not for him, those arrogant boys who had the world at their fingertips, but the rest of him coiled with anticipation too, his breath catching tight in his chest, his toes pressing hard against the soles of his shoes, his fingers curling around his bottle until he could feel the bones creak against the glass. At that moment, he wasn't Tezuka Kunimitsu anymore - he wasn't anything except the ebb and flow of sound, the embodiment of music itself.

And then shrieks rent the air with sheer, gleeful intensity as Atobe strode out on stage, walking straight to the front of it and pointing out at the audience in confident entitlement, chin lifted and mouth curled into a knowing smirk. Arrogant or no, he belonged up there - he owned the stage, and Tezuka didn't even notice the others until the first, clear guitar note sliced straight through the screams.

And Tezuka forgot to breathe.

It was so simple, sixteen bars of F-sharps and C-sharps and the occasional F, then joined by a subtle bass line and the most basic of patterns in the kit - technically speaking, a child could have written it. But the moment Atobe opened his mouth, fingers curling around the mic and lashes curling against his high cheekbones, violet lights reflecting against pale skin and sparkling in the gauzy material of his shirt, it was like the song took on a life of its own. His voice, a mid-baritone with a bit of an edge to it, like honey left to crystallise slightly beneath the sun, reverberated from his toes, like he was pulling the sound up from the earth and coiling it tight in his belly before letting it spill past his lips, mingling sacred and profane into a thread of pure, unadulterated music. As the rhythm guitar entered, fading up in preparation for the chorus, that thread snapped tight, the patterns in bass and drums building, and building, and building, but nothing could have prepared Tezuka for the sudden shock of Atobe's voice sliding effortlessly up the octave, velvet-roughness finding flash point and exploding magnesium-gold into galvanised steel that pierced the air with far more intensity than the accompanying flash of gold-green lights. With one single word, he unleashed the music, and the music shone, shimmering palpable and alive all around, so thick that Tezuka could breathe it, taste it, feel it flow through his veins to coil heavy and home in his heart.

This was what music was supposed to be. Tezuka had forgotten what it felt like to be so completely entwined with it, lovers blurred together until the boundaries faded away into nothingness - this was what he had been missing, and now that he'd found it again, he knew he couldn't let it go. This was what he was meant to be doing, and his fingers twitched against the bottle he'd forgotten he was holding, rhythm pounding through his body, curling in his muscles, modulating his heartbeat - he lived music, and this song was no exception, pulling him along like the rise-and-fall of breath, leaving him dizzy and energised and so full of life that he wondered if he'd been dead all these years and simply hadn't noticed.

He couldn't look away, couldn't blink, as he watched the curl of Atobe's lip on every pause, every breath, the arrogance bleeding from his pores as much of his performance as the impeccable style and the sultry looks he sent the audience. But beneath all that, Tezuka could see the hunger, the raw musicality burning deep in Atobe's eyes - this was his calling as much as it was Tezuka's, and as resistant as Tezuka had been to the idea, he couldn't deny that Atobe was good. Not just good, in fact - he was stunning. Arrogance or no, his voice was mesmerising, and his stage presence only compounded that until he was almost a force of nature, impossible to resist, drawing you in and wrapping you in coils of music until you were well and truly submerged in it.

It took Tezuka all the way to the bridge to even be able to look away from Atobe for a second, and then his gaze caught on the two guitarists, the tall one with silver hair and a silver cross sparkling between his collarbones, the short one with a Perpetual Rock Scowl and an intense look of concentration marred only by the band of his baseball cap crossing his forehead. They didn't suit the image nearly as well as Atobe did, but they still looked completely at home, every movement as natural as breathing - the lean and curl of their bodies toward each other, the identical arch of their spines as they leaned in toward their mics, even the effortlessly melded harmony of their voices. They played as if they had only one guitar between them, like they'd been born playing together, and as such it was disorienting when all but the lead guitar dropped out completely and the synchronicity was shattered. The effect was palpable though, and Tezuka could feel his heartbeat catch again as the others faded back up toward the final chorus, energy mirror-reflected by the crowd until it blinded, and then the bass caught the crescendo and flung it downward even as Atobe's voice carried it soaring up and over, a catalytic superimposition of schism and unity that left Tezuka breathless and dizzy with excitement.

They were good, Tezuka thought, moistening dry lips as he dragged his gaze to Oshitari, watching the lithe slouch of his spine and swivel of his hips as he laid down the bass, movements understated but liquid-organic, every shift of his arm and curl of his finger and tilt of his head drawing minimum attention but with maximum results. He was the shadow to Atobe's blazing star, perfectly complementary, supporting Atobe in opposites, and the effect was formidable. This was what a rock band was meant to be. This was what rock was meant to be.

But as the song ended, something began to itch at Tezuka's subconscious. It took a few moments into the next song for it to register as a vague, nebulous sense of unrest, but it wasn't until two or three songs after that that Tezuka realised what was bothering him.

He finished his drink and set the bottle aside, folding his arms across his chest as he studied them more closely. It was true that they were all excellent musicians. The tall guitarist also played keyboards, and very well at that. The shorter guitarist could play a mean solo without even breaking a sweat. Oshitari had a feel for rhythm and bass lines that gave the music a substance it would lack otherwise. And Atobe, of course...he had the showmanship that marked the difference between a good rock band and a great rock band. Even the drummer, about whom Atobe had spoken so disparagingly, was decent, though he lacked the sparkle the other four had. No, it wasn't their musical talent that perplexed Tezuka. It was the lack of cohesiveness.

The longer he watched them play, the more he wondered how long they could really have been playing together. Judging by the fact that they'd never put out an album before, it couldn't have been too long, but then again, the push-and-pull between both the Atobe-Oshitari pair and the pair of guitarists spoke of a long-standing relationship that allowed them to read each other so effortlessly. But either way, there was something about...the stage language, the eye contact (or lack thereof), the way they functioned as separate units instead of a whole.... Even the music itself, while very solid, lacked directionality. It certainly wasn't from lack of ability either, since the way they handled their instruments showed that they were capable of even more than they were demonstrating. It felt more like a lack of....purpose, a lack of understanding, and it manifested in every aspect of their performance. The way Atobe always sang straight to the audience without once acknowledging his band members, more like a pop star than a rocker. The way the lead guitarist closed in on himself as soon as the other guitarist switched to keyboards, instead of interacting with one of the others in the interim. The way Oshitari's eyes never left Atobe, which, while not overt, was visible enough when Tezuka watched for it. The way their songs all had a similar sound, which was standard enough for a band, but that the similarity lay in the chord progressions, the rhythmic patterns, even the shape of the vocal line, rather than in the fusion of instruments. The lack of fusion of instruments, seen in the way the dominant instrument fluctuated so wildly from song to song. And...the emptiness of the lyrics, which, while perfectly solid, were delivered with little conviction and were thus not at all believable.

The fans didn't seem to mind one bit. They ate up the entire show, screaming for encores twice afterward, and many of them were even able to sing along, which spoke volumes about Tannhäuser's return statistics. Judging from the reactions surrounding him as the crowds filed out of the club, Tannhäuser was the hot ticket these days. And Tezuka couldn't say he disagreed. In the end. Tannhäuser had given an incredible performance - perhaps one of the best that he'd ever seen. But the music....

Tezuka was halfway through compiling a list of things the band needed to consider before recording their album when he realised this meant he'd decided to take the job after all.

+

Making the decision was one thing, but plucking up the courage to share it with them was another story entirely. Tezuka had never been any good at dealing with administrators - he'd been fortunate to find an editor who was so laid back, and a publisher who left him mostly to himself - and he'd left Samurai E before they'd gotten big enough to need a manager. Besides that, he really hadn't touched a kit in ten years, and the prospect of walking into a recording studio without having practiced at all left Tezuka cold.

The idea of drumming again after all these years was, quite frankly, terrifying. Despite the fact that his shoulder hadn't shown any signs of flaring up again in the past ten years, he could still remember the pain as brilliantly as if it had happened yesterday. That moment had been sickening, the thought that he was losing his career and his passion all in one single uncontrollable instant, and the x-ray confirmation had made him shut down completely. It hadn't really registered that he might not ever play again until he'd already quit the band, and at that point there wasn't much to be done. Samurai E's momentum was enormous; the last thing they needed was an injured drummer holding them back. And by the time he'd finished rehab and been declared good as new again by his physical therapist, they'd already signed a three-album record deal.

He'd been almost seventeen then, and was already feeling past his prime. He couldn't go back to his old band - they had a new drummer, someone who'd been with them through months of touring and song-writing, and he wasn't so heartless as to ask them to take him back in replacement. If he was being honest with himself, he was too proud, too - he had no doubt that they would have taken him back, but that was something he just didn't want to deal with. He never wanted to have to explain himself to anyone, and now that Samurai E was spotlighted across the country, the explanations would have to come fast and thick in order for them to keep the public satisfied. And he couldn't start his own band either - he was out of touch with the music scene at that point, and somehow it would have felt like a betrayal to try to start over with a new group of people right around the time that Samurai E was getting their big break. Tezuka supported his old friends wholeheartedly, even if he hadn't spoken to them in over a year.

So he'd decided to retire. Not many sixteen-year-olds could say they had already retired from a career, and he considered himself lucky that he'd had such a good run already. He told his former band mates that he wanted to go back to school, to try something else, and, once he managed to convince them he was genuine in his desire, they (as expected) supported him wholeheartedly. He enrolled in high school, studied hard, and graduated top of his class, and when his editor had approached him, having read one of Tezuka's pieces in a local literary magazine, Tezuka had found himself with an offer of a five-book contract with one of the biggest publishing firms in Tokyo at the age of eighteen.

Perhaps it was that he'd already had a career and so a career seemed like the logical choice instead of university, especially since he had no notion of what he'd want to study. Perhaps it was just nice to know that he had a talent for something other than drumming. Whatever it was, he'd signed it, and started work straightaway. Granted, romance novels weren't his idea of great literature, but the fact remained that he was providing a much-coveted service. It gave him the ability to work on his own schedule and to keep largely to himself, and, after his first book hit the bestsellers list in the genre, it also gave him a certain amount of freedom to write what he chose. He had the opportunity to reinvent the genre, to write real men and women instead of caricatures, to show that even romance novels could be art and not just pulp fiction.

It was a shame he'd never cared enough to make it happen.

But music....that was something he cared about. He'd kept it far from his thoughts for all these years, not wanting to entertain an all-but-nonexistent possibility. But now the possibility had been dropped in his lap, and there was no way to pretend any longer that this wasn't the only thing he really wanted to be doing. Ten years of telling himself it wouldn't happen tried their hardest to make him "see reason", but the little seed of doubt that had been planted by Atobe and Oshitari's visit had blossomed at Friday's concert, and had awakened every other moment of longing or ill-advised wishful thinking from the past ten years all at once. Tezuka couldn't have turned his back on it even if he'd wanted to, and now that he knew he didn't want to, there wasn't a thing that could stop him, even his apprehension about whether he even could drum anymore. He maybe wasn't about to walk straight into the studio, pick up his sticks, and start playing, but he was sure as hell going to make sure he could. And once Tezuka set his mind to something, he didn't waste a moment.

He didn't have the money to buy his own kit, and he wasn't much for wandering into a store and trying out their equipment where just anyone could see, but fortunately for him, after he'd been practicing approximately three and a half hours on a setup of books and a pair of lampshades, his roommate poked her head in and casually mentioned that the university had a kit in one of the practice rooms that very rarely got used.

Tezuka had known living with a student would come in handy someday.

He spent a chunk of Sunday afternoon tuning up the drumheads and greasing the threads on a kit that looked like it had fallen off the back of Led Zeppelin's tour bus, but the moment he sat down on the stool and brandished his sticks, he forgot everything except the feel of mylar giving beneath the weight of struck wood, the faint ache behind his teeth at every clash of metal, the pulse of rhythm flowing through his body in tangible vibrations. He forgot responsibilities, deadlines, time, and just let himself go, his whole body leaning into every pattern and fill and crash hit, his eyes falling shut as he let the music carry him, his arms finding position and angle and strength of impact again as if he'd never stopped. His wrists were loose, his shoulders relaxed, the muscles of his forearms flexing in well-remembered delight, and even when he flipped his sticks up without thinking about it and reached up to snatch them backwards out of the sky, his rotator cuff didn't once protest.

It felt like being fifteen again. And for once, that was actually a good thing.

With the first obstacle out of the way, it was time to tackle the bigger one, and it was with a great deal of apprehension (and perplexity) that Tezuka made his way Monday morning to Ginza, of all places. It wasn't entirely surprising, considering the way Atobe and Oshitari had been dressed, but Tezuka certainly didn't own anything nice enough to make him feel anything like at home in Ginza. The walk to the address he'd been given was a very uncomfortable fifteen minutes as he tried very hard not to bump into any of the richly attired women in frighteningly tall heels, and then once he got there and walked inside, it became an exercise in pretending not to notice all the men in million-yen suits staring at him as he caught the elevator up to the top floor.

The secretary who greeted him looked at Tezuka with disparaging disinterest over the top of his oh-so-fashionable glasses, but when he saw the card Tezuka had clutched in his hand, he told Tezuka to wait here, please as he slipped into the giant office, letting the door click shut behind him. Tezuka waited, examining his surroundings - the rich wood and expensive leather of the furniture, the plaques lining the walls, the carefully manicured plants in the corners - and wondering what, exactly, he'd gotten himself into. This place looked more like a cross between a lawyer's office and a corporate mecca than a music management company, and in this neighbourhood of all places....

The secretary returned after a few minutes, and, suddenly respectful, asked Tezuka to go in - Sakaki-sama is waiting for you, and held the door while Tezuka walked into the office.

The desk here matched the one in the front office, but it was much larger, and for good reason - the man sitting behind it looked more mafioso than music guru. If he was in fact in charge of Tannhäuser, then Atobe and Oshitari's clothing was starting to make sense.

Tezuka bowed. 'Sakaki-san,' he said respectfully. 'Atobe-san and Oshitari-san told me that you were the man to speak to about--'

'Yes, come in,' said Sakaki, waving Tezuka closer with a massive hand. Tezuka approached the desk, trying not to stare at the multitude of platinum and gold records behind Sakaki's head, but there were so many of them that he couldn't help but look. Clearly this man was a very successful manager, and it was just a bit intimidating for Tezuka to sit down across from him and fold his hands in his lap. Sakaki was sizing him up in much the same way as Atobe had done, though with less (visible) disdain, and it didn't take him as long to seem satisfied with what he saw.

'Tezuka-kun, I assume,' he said, and made a note when Tezuka nodded. 'Keigo assures me that you are the only man for this job, and after listening to some of your old recordings, I am inclined to agree. You certainly have the talent we're looking for, and the rest is easy enough to create. I assume he's told you what is to happen next.'

Tezuka cleared his throat, trying not to show his surprise at Sakaki's mention of "old recordings". 'Yes, sir,' he replied.

'And you are prepared to begin at once?'

'Yes, sir,' Tezuka replied. 'However...'

Sakaki raised a brow. 'Yes?'

Tezuka swallowed a bit nervously. 'Atobe-san mentioned my...lack of creative input during my involvement with Samurai E,' he said, the words still stiff despite the number of times he'd rehearsed them. 'After considering that for some time, I have concluded that he was correct to address that, and I would like to make amends.' He set his jaw, fixing Sakaki with a determined stare. 'If I am to do this, I would require creative input into the band's repertoire and performance aesthetic. I won't simply play what I am given.'

Sakaki's expression didn't flicker. 'And what of the other aspects?' he said evenly. 'Marketing, venues, image...are you seeking complete influence?'

'No,' Tezuka replied. 'I don't claim to know anything about the music business. That is your specialty, and I have no desire to interfere. I am simply a musician. But I know rock music, and I think my creative contributions will be invaluable for Tannhäuser's success.'

Sakaki's fingers found his chin, and he studied Tezuka closely, blue eyes piercing through Tezuka's carefully guarded mask. Tezuka refused to look away though. He knew that Tannhäuser was good, and would probably have enormous commercial success with or without his help, but he also knew that they could be great, and he wouldn't in good conscience contribute to a group that flirted with the mediocre.

After a long, silent moment, Sakaki's gaze flickered back over Tezuka's shoulder. 'Well?' he said. 'What do you think?'

Tezuka blinked, then looked over his shoulder to see Atobe standing there, arms folded and a very different smirk in place. This wasn't the sort of smirk that claimed superiority - this was self-satisfaction, an I knew it look that would have set Tezuka's teeth on edge were it not tempered by something very like genuine pleasure.

'Deal,' said Atobe.

Tezuka turned back to Sakaki, who offered up the barest hint of a smile. 'Very well,' he said, and stood, holding out his hand. 'Welcome to Hyoutei Entertainment.'

+

Though everything seemed to be moving far faster than Tezuka might have expected, the paperwork involved in actually becoming a part of Hyoutei Entertainment took the better part of two hours. Sakaki, it turned out, was not only a personal manager but also an a&r executive, a record producer, and a label owner, which explained the size and upscale nature of the building. Tannhäuser was apparently the only band Sakaki himself managed, something to do with Atobe's connections, and as such, Tannhäuser had a lot more freedom than most of the other bands signed to the Hyoutei label. Tannhäuser was Sakaki's headline band, and that explained the promotion, the venues they had played, the ridiculous budget available to them, and certainly the studio Tezuka now found himself in.

Everything here had to be brand new, from the instruments to the boards to the soundproofing to the toilets in the attached suites. It was luxury Tezuka had certainly never seen before in his life, and it sure as hell explained Atobe's attitude. Oshitari fortunately seemed more down-to-earth than Atobe, and the others, Shishido (the short guitarist) and Ootori (the tall guitarist), even more so - Ootori even confided to Tezuka that the reason Atobe-san was like that was because his father practically owned half of Japan.

Tezuka could believe it.

After a brief, cursory tour, Atobe led Tezuka into a sitting room with a lot of expensive-looking furniture. Oshitari was already there, sprawled out gracefully on the sofa reading a book that Tezuka was horrified to realise was one of his; Oshitari shot him a lazy smile over the top of the book as Tezuka sat down, and marked a page before setting it aside and pillowing his heads behind his hand. Shishido and Ootori joined them after a moment, Shishido slumping into a loveseat and popping the top on a can of beer, Ootori sitting more reservedly on the thick carpet and drawing his knees up to his chest. Atobe claimed the armchair, crossing his legs regally, and sipped what looked to be a glass of juice before fixing Tezuka with a Look.

'Well, Tezuka,' he said. 'You mentioned that you had "invaluable creative input" to offer, yes? So. Input.'

Tezuka cleared his throat, drawing himself up straighter in his chair. The laundry list of quibbles he'd made up sat heavy on his tongue, but under the weight of four expectant stares, he couldn't just rattle it off. As he was trying to think of how to put it tactfully though, Oshitari spoke up.

'I'm sure you must have some specifics you can start us with,' he drawled pleasantly. 'For example. What did you think of Friday's concert?'

Tezuka whipped his head around, staring at Oshitari. Oshitari grinned, flashing him a half-wink. 'You're a handsome man, Tezuka,' he said. 'You're hard to miss.'

'Don't mind him,' said Ootori as Tezuka fought back a blush. 'He's always like that. But I would really like to know what you thought, Tezuka-san.'

'Well...' Tezuka swallowed. 'I....I enjoyed the performance.'

Ootori grinned. Shishido, on the other hand, grunted, lowering his beer. 'Enjoyed it, but didn't love it?'

'Not exactly.' Tezuka adjusted his glasses. 'I thought the performance was excellent. I could tell that you are all very talented musicians, and you all have a way of drawing your audience in. There's something for every demographic, between the four of you, and you use that well. But the music....was forgettable.'

'Excuse me?' Atobe sat up straighter as well, fixing Tezuka with a sharp stare. 'What do you mean "forgettable"?'

'I mean,' Tezuka replied, the hostility in Atobe's tone awakening a hint of the same in himself, 'that there wasn't anything extraordinary about it. Oh, it's good, yes, solid enough, and definitely rock, but it's...confused. Disjointed. Rock music should be a fusion of many elements into one entity. It's not vocals and backup, Atobe - this isn't pop.'

Shishido snorted with laughter as Atobe's face darkened, but Tezuka ignored him. 'They,' he said, gesturing, 'are your band. You should listen to them, talk to them, interact with them! And I don't mean songwriting. I know you all write songs, and I can tell that because I can hear four different styles that don't match. And what does match is what should be different. Every band has a style, yes, but style doesn't mean the same chord progressions and the same drum patterns and the same pyramid of entrances and building toward the chorus. I know you're all better than that.'

'Anything else?' Atobe's voice was cold, anger flickering in his eyes, but there was understanding there too and it chased away some of Tezuka's irritation at Atobe's reception.

'I didn't believe you,' he said, looking straight into Atobe's face. 'I didn't believe what you were saying.'

'I see.' Atobe leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of juice. He was visibly shaken, but the part of Tezuka that wanted to apologise for his rudeness was drowned out by the musician clamouring to be heard. It might have been rude, but Tezuka knew he was right, and when it came to music, he refused to pull his punches.

'So what do you suggest, Tezuka?' Oshitari was sitting up now, looking genuinely interested; a glance at both Shishido and Ootori showed that they felt the same way. Even Atobe was listening, even though he was making quite a show of being personally insulted, and that was all Tezuka needed.

'Rock is supposed to say something,' he said. 'Listening to you play, it sounds like you might all have your own ideas about what that is, but it's not cohesive, like you aren't listening to each other and are all just talking at once. I don't believe the lyrics because I don't think you believe them either. There isn't a formula to rock, and emulating the greats won't make you great. Oshitari.'

He looked straight at him. 'You listen to...Kagrra, Pink Floyd, Rush, David Bowie, La'cryma Christi...progressive, art rock coupled with a bit of glam. Shishido, you like grunge - Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains. There's some metal in there as well - AC/DC, Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Siam Shade - and I bet you enjoy post-grunge as well. Ootori, you prefer the more folksy sounds - Mr Children, Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison, the Stones. And Atobe. Your tastes are eclectic. You like to know it all, because you like to know what you're up against. But there's classical influence in there, and pop, and I hear new wave in your voice.'

He cleared his throat again. 'And your drummer sounded like he came straight from punk. How did I do?'

There was silence for a long moment. Tezuka looked around, studying the thoughtful expression on Ootori's face, the downward curl of Shishido's mouth, the gleam in Oshitari's eyes, the way that Atobe had forgotten to look annoyed. At least they were really listening to him now, and that boded well for the upcoming album recording.

Finally, Oshitari broke the silence. 'That's rather impressive, Tezuka,' he said with a slow smile. 'Not comprehensive, of course, but I think we all get the picture.'

'It's quite the party trick,' Atobe cut in, snippy enough to make Tezuka's smile fade, but then redeemed himself by asking, 'but what's your point?'

'Before you can really play rock,' Tezuka replied, 'you need to understand it yourself. Having such varied influences is a good thing, because it allows for an eclectic fusion and a very original sound. But before we can figure out how to say it, we have to figure out what we're trying to say.'

'And say it together,' Ootori blurted, and then blushed.

'That's exactly right,' Tezuka said, smiling faintly at Ootori, who grinned back. 'As well as Shishido and Ootori work together, if Shishido's playing Joe Perry while Ootori's playing John Denver, it's not going to work.'

'Are you suggesting we write all new songs before Sunday?' asked Shishido, crumpling the now-empty can of beer and tossing it with unerring accuracy into the recycling.

'No,' Tezuka replied. 'The music is still good. Not great, but it's solid. It's the delivery that's lacking. Even the most prosaic music can become exciting if it's done right.'

'You said our performance was extraordinary,' Atobe snapped.

'Your performance is. Your playing of the music isn't.'

'I don't think I understand.' Ootori unfolded himself and stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. 'I mean, I understand what you're saying, but I don't understand...how to fix it.'

Tezuka pressed his lips together. The others were now looking at him as if they expected him to fix it, and he supposed it was only fair, since he was the one who'd brought this all up in the first place. He thought for a long moment, and then nodded, standing as well.

'All right,' he said. 'Perhaps I can show you.'

He headed for the practice studio, followed immediately by Ootori. Shishido followed them, pausing by the fridge (presumably for another beer) but then thinking better of it and entering the studio empty-handed. Atobe and Oshitari hung back a bit, but not far enough that Tezuka couldn't hear when Oshitari leaned toward Atobe and said, 'You're right, Keigo - this was a good idea.' He did miss Atobe's reply, but the fact that Atobe was there as well was more than enough.

They took a few moments, Ootori and Shishido tuning their guitars, Oshitari checking the volume on his bass, Atobe adjusting the mic until it was Just So, and Tezuka took the opportunity to familiarise himself with the kit. It was also brand new, which, when it came to drums, wasn't necessarily a good thing, but the heads gave nicely when he struck them and the kick had a nice resonance, and the acoustics in the room were such that overtones were minimised and the volume wasn't extreme. Tezuka shifted the blanket around inside the kick a bit, just to make sure, and then looked up to see everyone watching him with obvious interest.

He cleared his throat. 'All right,' he said. 'How about the song you opened with on Friday?'

Shishido went for the pedals, shifting them until he had the one he wanted, and Ootori grabbed his other guitar. Tezuka watched, taking in the mannerisms of the band. Even doing this, Shishido and Ootori had a certain synchronisation, while Oshitari's attention stayed on Atobe and Atobe's on his microphone and invisible audience. It was interesting to see the dynamic played out so clearly, and Tezuka kept watching until they'd settled, and only then did he start to speak.

'What's this song about?'

Atobe actually turned around, arching a brow at Tezuka. 'Ahn?' he said, drawing out the syllable. 'Surely you can understand the lyrics.'

'I do,' Tezuka replied coolly. 'That isn't what I asked.'

'It's about the only person who made life make sense leaving you because you finally did something unforgivable.'

Everyone looked at Oshitari, who looked right back, eyes gleaming. 'That's what it means,' he insisted.

Tezuka looked at Shishido, whose fingerprints were all over the music. 'Is that right?' he asked.

Shishido shrugged, but the way his shoulders hunched said that yes, that was exactly what the song meant. Tezuka nodded, then looked back at Atobe.

'What do you think about when you sing it?'

'About the song,' Atobe replied. 'What else?'

Tezuka sighed. 'What about the song?'

'The inflection.' Atobe folded his arms. 'How to present it to best effect.'

'And there's problem number one.' Tezuka put his sticks down and leaned forward, regarding Atobe intently. 'This music isn't about how best to sell it. If you do it right, it sells itself. But as long as you're thinking about that, it's always going to be pop, never rock. You all listen to Western rock, correct? Well, rock in America started as a rebellion. It wasn't about selling the music - nobody would buy it even if someone did sign the musicians. People rioted in the streets over rock. It was a way to defy authority. It was revolutionary because it fused the music of two races, and it defied every one of society's standards. It definitely was not about conforming.'

Atobe scowled, but Shishido nodded. 'Rock is a musical fuck you.'

Ootori flinched a bit, but Tezuka nodded. 'Yes it is. It doesn't have to be confrontational, but it does have to be unapologetic. And Atobe, I know you can do that.'

Atobe snorted, but the look on his face said he'd taken in what Tezuka had said, so Tezuka continued.

'For this song, try to imagine that the one person who has always been there for you your entire life, who's taken everything you've ever thrown at her, has finally had enough of you. You pushed her just that much too far. There isn't anyone else like her out there, and even though it kills you, you know you have to get it together and make it up to her because this time, she won't come back on her own.'

'What is this, another romance novel?' Atobe muttered, but Oshitari stretched out a long leg and kicked him in the shin, and he shut up, though not after throwing a murderous glare in Oshitari's direction.

'What about us?'

Tezuka looked over at Ootori. 'The band should all be thinking about the same thing,' he said, 'but at the same time, we musicians should also think about how this was the love of Atobe's life, and how we as his friends need to support him and help him win her back. A rock band is a family, and we need to act like it, instead of being five separate entities who happen to be playing the same song.'

'What about you?' Shishido eyed Tezuka curiously. 'You're going to play too?'

Tezuka shrugged. 'Of course,' he replied. 'I am part of the band now. Unless you were planning to track down the drummer you fired....'

Shishido's eyebrows went up in a doubtful okay..., but he said nothing else, and when Tezuka didn't add to what he was saying, he rolled his shoulders and started to play.

For the sixteen bars of guitar-only, Tezuka watched the body language of the others - Ootori's anticipation, Oshitari's mild interest, Atobe's preparative breaths - and then closed his eyes for the moment before his sticks met high hat.

Fortunately, the drum pattern was simple enough that he didn't really need to pay attention to it, but for the first several seconds of playing, it was all he could do not to dissolve into sheer pleasure. It felt so good to be back doing this, and the expressions on the others' faces as they looked back at him said that he hadn't lost his touch either. The practice he'd done the day before had taken some of the edge off of the novelty though, and it didn't take long before he was able to focus his attention fully on the others. And what he saw from back here was the same as what he'd seen at the concert - Shishido and Ootori playing off each other, Oshitari's attention squarely on Atobe, and Atobe's attention completely removed from his band.

Tezuka clicked his sticks together to get their attention, and they stopped, faster than he'd been expecting. Atobe glared at Tezuka, clearly irate at having been interrupted, but Tezuka just looked right back at him calmly. 'You aren't relating to each other,' he said. 'Atobe, the vocals are better, but it still feels like I'm watching two separate bands. Shishido and Ootori play well off each other, and Oshitari, you have the right idea paying attention to Atobe, but there's a fissure there, and it makes the music lose some of its impact. You all have the ability to walk around, you know. Your cords are long enough. Even if you have to return to your pedals and mics, that doesn't mean that Ootori can't walk over and play to Oshitari for a while, or that Shishido can't invade Atobe's personal space a bit.'

Shishido and Atobe both grimaced, and Tezuka sighed, rolling his eyes. 'You can't possibly hate each other,' he said, 'so at least...pretend to like each other.'

'They're childhood friends,' Oshitari drawled, amused. 'It won't be believable.'

'Try,' Tezuka retorted. 'And even if you aren't going to start touching each other, you can at least look at each other. This isn't piano class, and you don't have sheet music. Play off each other.'

'And you?' Ootori raised his brows at Tezuka. 'Can we play to you as well?'

'The drums are...a bit trickier,' Tezuka said. 'Because they're at the back of the stage, if you turn your attention to the drummer for too long, you're ignoring the audience. But you can glance over your shoulder once in awhile, especially during the times when Atobe's not singing. Fills are good times for that. Or you can walk back and stand here but still face front. Whatever you do, just make sure it's deliberate and not just fidgeting.'

Oshitari nodded, and Shishido gave a grunt of approval. Atobe for once said nothing, but Tezuka could see him thinking about it. That in and of itself felt like a triumph; he remembered being egotistical when he was younger, though certainly not to this extent, and he had never taken kindly to criticism.

'Again,' Atobe said after a moment, and Shishido nodded and started over.

This time, Tezuka could feel the difference from the get-go. Atobe's fingers wrapped around the mic again, but he watched Shishido intro them, and his body language was much more open as he leaned toward him just a bit, and then back into the mic as he started singing. Oshitari's cool and detached persona was still there, as was his attentiveness to Atobe, but he looked up at the guitarists too, and he let the sway of his body move him into a walk (well, more a sinuous slink, really) when it called for it. Ootori physically fell back into the background of the tableau when he wasn't playing, and as he started to fade up, he stepped forward, arching into it, and Shishido's body shifted to accommodate him, leaning until they were back to back, using the movement of their playing in a push-and-pull that gave the song dynamism. After the chorus, Atobe looked away from the mic, toward Oshitari, and let the movement of Oshitari's bass line physically carry him into the next verse; in the longer pauses between words, he turned his head to the side for his inhales, looking somewhere between the guitarists and the floor in a pose that seemed both dejected and in search of encouragement, which Shishido provided with the steadiness of broken chords. Ootori let the switch to acoustic-sound carry him backward again, and he came to a stop beside Tezuka, looking over his shoulder and shooting him a small smile, and Tezuka allowed himself to smile back, using Ootori's rhythmic playing to tease out his hits.

The biggest surprise came at the bridge, when Tezuka looked up from a fill to find that Oshitari was now standing right next to Atobe and Atobe was half-leaning on him, looking over his shoulder at him as he sang, microphone stand caught and tilted toward him so he didn't lose the sound. It was the most Tezuka had ever seen Atobe interact with anyone on anything like an even keel, and it made such a huge difference that Tezuka's chest twisted with excitement. This could actually work. They had less than a week now, but if less than an hour could accomplish something like this, then they actually had a chance of putting out a really good album.

It seemed like he may have underestimated Atobe after all.

When the song came to a close, Tezuka let the vibrations echo out, ringing in his ears for several seconds, and then opened his eyes, giving everyone a slight, genuine smile. 'That was good,' he said quietly, nodding in approval.

Atobe smirked, a wordless naturally, but both Oshitari and Ootori looked almost awed by the difference, and even Shishido was on the verge of a quasi-smile. Instead, though, he fixed Tezuka with a sharp look, adjusting his guitar. 'You played all that from one hearing?' he asked.

Tezuka set his sticks down. 'Mm,' he replied. 'It's simple enough.'

'But it's not exactly basic.' Shishido took a step forward, eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Just one hearing?'

Tezuka shrugged, though he could feel his face starting to heat a bit. It was true that he'd always been exceptionally good at picking up any line he'd heard once or twice - he had a good ear and an excellent memory, and it wasn't really all that hard to do. It had always baffled people though, everyone except Echizen, who'd had that same ability, only with melodic lines just as well as rhythm and harmony. Tezuka didn't think it was that big a deal, but he was waiting for another jab about a party trick.

It didn't come though. Instead, Atobe turned to look at him, one hand propped up on his hip. 'Then let's try another song, shall we?'

Continue to Part II