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The first time Eiji tries to go in, he chickens out.
He tiptoes toward the club entrance, following in the shadows of a rowdy group of teens, innards vibrating with the thundering guitar riffs from inside. Fog spills out from the propped door. A big, burly guy with close cropped hair guards the entrance. He accepts cash from each of the teens in front of Eiji in exchange for tickets, and they rush in as whatever song ends to cheers and claps.
Eiji comes to a stop. Another song starts up. He barely catches flashes of pink and red lights from within, indistinct forms in movement. Hands in the pockets of his jacket, he runs his thumb over the calluses on his left fingertips.
“You coming in or what?” grunts the guy.
“Oh, um―” Eiji swallows. Backtracking, he shakes his head, and without another word, he scurries away.
He sets back across the dark street, mentally kicking himself and dodging out of the way of oncoming headlights. Once a safe distance away, he pauses and shoots a fleeting look back at the club. Raging guitar, drums, and vocals echo from a distance.
Eiji zips up his jacket and turns away.
The second time Eiji tries to go in, he actually makes it inside.
He assumed it wouldn’t be his scene, and he’s right. Cigarette smoke clouds the air, giving everything a soft, hazy quality and making Eiji’s eyes sting. The show has yet to begin, so people amble around and talk, some in the pit before the stage, some at the dimly lit bar removed from the action. Eiji sticks out in his light wash denim jeans, white t-shirt, and corduroy maroon jacket; everyone else dons black, wild prints, leather, glitter.
Hearing voices coming up behind him, Eiji pushes forward into the club, eyes flickering around as he decides the best spot for him to stand. Most everyone here has someone with them―a friend, a significant other―but he’s alone. He doesn’t know any of the bands playing tonight (can’t even remember the names from the sign outside) and expects it to be loud, so he claims a space for himself near the back and side, close to the clinking glasses of the bar. The stage remains in good view, even with the already dense audience. Onstage, people move in and out, adjusting mics, amps. Eiji guesses from their drab, black garb they’re the club employees, not members of one of the bands. It’s stuffy and hot, but Eiji does not remove his jacket.
Eventually, the flurry of movement dies down, and beams of red light stretch across the stage. The crowd roars when four people take to the stage: one sits at the drumset, another at the synth keyboard, and the other two remain standing, one with a bass guitar and the other with a rhythm guitar. The two guitarists have mics, and once they plug in their guitars, the rhythm guitarist slams a loud, gritty chord.
Hands waving in the air, the crowd screams.
Echoes of the electric guitar still humming, the rhythm guitarist (singer?) leans into the mic. “What’s up, fuckers. We’re Survival Axe and we’re starting you off tonight.”
He glances at the rest of the band, and with shared nods, the drummer taps out a small intro rhythm.
Then, all the noise hits Eiji at once.
His entire body vibrates with each drumbeat and strum of guitar, all sound erased except for the song itself. The rhythm guitarist leans into the mic and begins to sing. His voice is low, raw, and deeply emotive, and his entire body is wholly committed to each chord he plays. Pale skin and messied blond hair stand in contrast to a loose black tank with diagonal slashes across the chest and skintight black leather pants. Beside him, the bassist harmonizes, spiky hair dyed blue. Sunglasses cover the bassist’s eyes.
As the set progresses, Eiji acclimatizes to the wall of noise, actually exhilarated with the overwhelming sensory information, but likes the second to last song best, a slower, more ballad-like song. The main singer stills and his voice comes out softer as he plucks his guitar. He pacifies even the crowd, who foamed at the mouth during the more energetic songs but now are rapt.
But, the song ends and they close with another raucous song, last strum of guitar slowly fading out over the cheering.
“Thank you,” says the main singer, and cuts off the fading note off.
Eiji applauds with the others. The band collects their stuff and leaves, club employees replacing them and resetting the stage for the next band. Eiji’s ears ring in the absence of sound. Maybe fifteen minutes or so pass and the next band takes the stage, but Eiji finds himself missing the first group, not quite as enthralled for whatever reason.
He approaches the bar, wading through people clustered on one end. With their chatter and the other band still plugging on, Eiji barely hears his own voice as he calls to one of the bartenders, “Excuse me!”
Some woman on the other end of the bar laughs piercingly. The bartender continues to talk with the cluster.
“Um. Excuse me!” Eiji repeats.
Head jerking up, the bartender slides to Eiji. “Sorry about that―what do you want?”
Eiji picks a drink at random from the board, and the bartender turns away to make it. Left alone, Eiji stands there, bar digging into his bottom ribs. He taps a finger on the glossy black.
His eyes wander across the bar. With a jolt, he recognizes the blond hair of the main singer of the first band, standing surrounded by a swarm of attentive followers. The singer casually lounges into the bar, smiling and talking with ease. He’s too far for Eiji to catch anything more from the conversation than a dull murmur.
The singer turns to face the bar, and for a second, he droops. He knocks back a shot. With a wince and a hand through his hair, he returns to the conversation as he was before, smiling.
Absentmindedly, his eyes land on Eiji. Eiji looks down at his hands.
“Here you go.” The bartender slides a short, squat brown drink to Eiji.
“Thank you!” Eiji squeaks, but the bartender is already moving back to his conversation on the other side of the bar.
Eiji takes the glass and tests it with a sniff. All he gets is a waft of alcohol, and feeling stupid, he downs the whole drink. It doesn’t taste good, exactly, but it burns the back of his throat in a satisfying way.
Behind him, the crowd cheers when the other band completes a song.
Eiji lowers his emptied glass and slaps down some bills on the bar. He hurries away, slipping out the front entrance as other people enter. Crisp night air welcomes him in contrast to the hot, heavy smokiness of the club. He marches up the sidewalk to head for his apartment.
His hands stay in his pockets the whole way.
In the next few weeks, Eiji returns to the club a handful of times, always lurking back in his spot close to the bar. A variety of musicians and bands play―rock, electronica, jazz―and he collects the names of his favorites. But even so, he checks the marquee out front during the daytime, waiting for Survival Axe to return. They’re the exact opposite of what he knows he likes, what he should like, and yet, more than anything else, they offered a sense of freedom.
Finally he sees them on the marquee in an upcoming show. After a long shift at his job waitering at a small restaurant, he exchanges his crisp long sleeve button down and slacks for a red long sleeve shirt tucked into his jeans and a denim jacket. Survival Axe performs third this time, so he sits through the sets of the other groups. They return to the stage, audience even larger than the last time, slightly different than before. The bassist has pink hair this time, and while the main singer keeps the leather pants, he pairs them with a white t-shirt and a studded leather jacket.
The set is the same, but Eiji enjoys it just the same with slight variations in the performance. The main singer’s voice is raspier this time, his energy more melancholy than angered.
Eiji claps when it’s over.
Only one band plays after Survival Axe, apparently not as popular as most of the audience filters out. Eiji waits and figures he’ll give them a shot, remaining in his spot as the crew resets.
The last band comes out and starts.
A door by the side of the stage marked EMPLOYEES AND PERFORMERS ONLY opens. Dim in flashing blue lights, the main singer of Survival Axe lets the door slam shut behind him. He glances to the performance and brushes through the remaining people, lighting a cigarette as he goes.
He makes his way to the bar, eyes passing over Eiji. Eiji tenses, but the singer looks past him and walks right by, leaving a hint of cigarette smoke behind.
Eiji glues his eyes to the band playing, but he can’t ignore his periphery. As if innocently shifting his weight, he throws a short glance to his side. Survival Axe’s singer leans back into the bar, arms crossed, cigarette glowing orange in the dark as he pulls in a puff. Eiji looks forward before the singer notices.
He forces himself to stay another few minutes, but forgoing the other band’s complete set, he ducks out of the club.
When he arrives to his apartment, he tosses his jacket to the bed and flops down. The bed is lumpy under his shoulder blades.
Exhaling, Eiji drapes an arm over his eyes.
Eiji continues to return to the club, often seeing Survival Axe. Most of the time, but not always, the lead singer comes to the bar after their performance to get a drink and watch the other shows; sometimes he’s flanked by energetic fans, sometimes he’s alone. Eiji usually leaves before his own presence feels too obvious, but nevertheless, he still comes back.
After a night where Survival Axe plays second and gives a somewhat more tired performance than usual, Eiji moves aside when he sees the lead singer step out of the backstage door. The singer whips out a stool and plops down at the bar with a sigh, fingers sinking into his hair as he leans into his elbow.
Feeling like he’s intruding, Eiji looks away, but inhaling slowly, he gathers himself up and walks to the opposite end of the bar. The singer’s head doesn’t pop up.
Eiji pulls out one of the stools, a leg screeching loudly on the floor. Holding in a cringe, he keeps his eyes forward and burns with the singer’s attention. He quickly sits, hands on his lap.
“Anything I can get for you?” the bartender asks.
“Um.” Again, Eiji picks at random. He doesn’t exactly want a drink, but it would look weird for him to not order anything.
The singer has yet to order anything. Eiji fidgets while he waits for his drink.
“Here,” says the bartender, holding it out to him.
Muttering, “Thanks,” Eiji takes a sip. Sweet, a little fruity. He doesn’t mind it, so he keeps drinking, as with the next band has yet to start, he has nothing else as a distraction other than people talking and noises of the crew resetting the stage.
A wave of air as someone passes by. “Yo, nice job tonight, Lynx!” says a guy, clapping the singer on the shoulder.
“Thanks,” the singer, Lynx, replies. Voice drained, quiet. The guy continues off into the club.
Eiji takes another sip. The bartender washes glasses in the lull.
“You a fan or something?”
Inhaling sharply, Eiji looks up. Sharp green eyes rimmed with black meet him, neither warm nor cold.
“I see you around here all the time.”
“Oh!” Eiji’s hand tightens around the glass. “Um, yeah, I mean…”
The crowd behind them cheers as the next band takes the stage. They both look over their shoulders a second; Eiji recollects himself.
“Um, I do enjoy Survival Axe’s repertoire,” Eiji babbles. “You’re all very versatile, and each show is different.”
“Is that so.”
Eiji nods. Over the starting notes of the band, he practically shouts, “Well, tonight you seemed a bit tired…”
Lynx does not respond, and Eiji closes his mouth, opens it.
“I didn’t mean… Only in comparison…”
A ghost of a smile. “You know us that well, huh?”
“Ah.” Eiji looks down. “I guess.” He swallows a sip, soaking in his stupidity. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that, I mean no offense, um… Mr. Lynx―”
Lynx laughs, loud and familiar, surprising Eiji out of his tirade. It takes Lynx a moment to regain himself, and shoulders shaking, he says, “Ash is fine.” He stands and moves stools, taking the one right beside Eiji. “So we don’t have to keep yelling as much.”
Eiji recoils a little, but he keeps himself to the seat, hand protective around his drink. Their closeness brings the smell of cigarettes again. A cheetah print tank with a low v-neck shows the glistening beads of sweat trickling down Ash’s throat and chest, tokens from his performance.
He fixes on Eiji again, propping his head up with a hand. He raises an eyebrow. “Actually, it’s kinda refreshing to hear some honest feedback,” he says, humor in his voice. “I’m not interested in getting empty praise, so thanks.”
“Oh… You’re welcome, then.”
“But you’re lucky it was me. Don’t try that shit with anyone else. Musicians have fragile egos.”
Eiji’s eyes fall to the bar. “Right.”
“So, you got a name?”
“Eiji.”
“You smoke, Eiji?” Ash asks, sticking a hand in his leather jacket pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
“Sure.”
Ash hands him a cigarette first, and keeping his eyes away, Eiji leans in to let Ash light it. Once it catches and Eiji takes in a drag, Ash pulls one out for himself and lights it, stashing away the pack and lighter in his pocket again.
The other band thunders behind them, but exhaling smoke, the two of them remain in a bubble.
“Oi! Ash!”
They whip around, finding the bassist worming his way toward them. His hair is green tonight (Eiji thinks, with the dark lights), and he still wears his sunglasses.
“We’re packing up,” he says to Ash.
Ash sighs. “Fine.” He stands and snuffs his cigarette in the dish on the bar. The bassist is already back to the backstage door while Ash pauses, looking back at Eiji. He’s almost intentionally expressionless, face smooth. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. If you’ll be here.”
Still, Eiji pinches his cigarette, a thin whisper of smoke rising from the end. Quietly, he says, “Do you… Do you want any help? Packing up, that is.”
“Huh? But you’re not―”
“If I help, it might be shorter than twenty minutes.” Eiji takes a long drag.
They’re immune to the noise surrounding them. Ash’s eyes scarcely flicker down Eiji.
“If you want,” he says, finally, brushing back his hair.
With that, Eiji stands and snuffs out his cigarette, and leaving a couple of bills on the bar for his drink, he trails after Ash. They slip backstage, Ash holding the door for Eiji, and the door thuds shut after, somewhat muffling the applause.
Ash leads him down a dim hallway, away from the action on stage, slowing at an ajar door. It’s a decently sized green room with a low hanging ceiling and flickering fluorescents. A couple of other performers chill on a tapestry couch, while amps and guitars and keyboards lie all around the room.
The bassist and the other band members perk up at Ash’s presence. “What’s up with him?” the bassist asks, furrowing his brow at Eiji.
“This is Eiji. He’s gonna help us move out.”
Forehead clearing, the bassist bobs his head. “Cool. I’m Shorter, by the way.”
Eiji manages, “Nice to meet you.”
They disperse, picking up amps and cords. Eiji hovers, unsure where to go at first, but Shorter asks him to help carry the synth set, so he goes over to him. They carry everything to a loading dock out back, where the drummer waits in a rumbling car, hutch open for them to shove everything in.
“He’s the only one who’s got space,” explains Shorter after they wedge in the synth keyboard, jerking a thumb to the drummer.
They step back into the building, passing by Ash lugging an amp.
Within maybe ten minutes, their equipment is entirely tucked away in the drummer’s car, so with a wave, the drummer speeds off into the night, taillights vanishing after. The keyboardist says farewell too.
“Well!” Shorter flicks them a grin and a peace sign. “Later, dudes. See ya around, Eiji.”
“Yeah, you too,” Eiji says, waving him goodbye.
When he disappears around the corner, Ash and Eiji don’t move. Distant riffs come from where they came.
Exhaling, Ash hikes up the guitar case on his shoulder. “Want to walk?”
“Okay.”
They leave the stifling club air behind for cool, open night. They pass by people going from club to bar, bar to party. Laughter and music ebb in and out. They turn onto Waldron Street.
Ash speaks first. “Have you ever been to the park in the alley down here?”
“There’s a park?”
“Garden, I guess. It’s small.”
“I didn’t know you could fit a whole park here.”
“Yeah, not many people know about it.” Ash turns his head to the side and gestures to an alley lit by a single fluorescent outside light. “It’s down there.”
“Oh.”
Ash tenses. “Sorry,” he blurts, “it really is a park, I’m not―not―”
“It’s okay, I believe you.”
Ash deflates.
“I’d like to see it, then,” Eiji says. “Since I didn’t know it was there.”
“Okay.”
Ash leads him down the alley, and at the end they meet a narrow wooden gate with no latch. Ash pushes it open.
Tucked into an empty pocket between four different buildings, fronds tremble with a faint breeze. The mulchy ground crunches under Eiji’s feet as he comes to a stop and looks around. Among bushes are a handful of trees, branches dripping over an iron bench.
“Wow,” he breathes.
“Yeah.” Setting down his guitar case, Ash plops onto the bench and looks up into the overhanging branches. “My brother used to take me here.”
Still standing, Eiji focuses on Ash, who does not meet his eyes. Slowly, he approaches and takes a seat beside him. Drifting light from buildings and hazy skylight hides Ash’s expression as Ash continues to look up, leaning into the back of the bench with his elbows.
“It’s quiet,” he murmurs.
Eiji says nothing.
The breeze picks up and sways the branches and bushes surrounding them, filling the silence around them. Eiji’s fingers go numb with cold, so he burrows down into his jacket and shoves his hands into his pockets.
Ash glances over. “Cold?”
“A little.”
“Here.” Ash offers out his hands, and after a second, Eiji takes them.
His hands are warm, careful, smoothing out the cold from Eiji’s fingertips. Eiji’s eyes dart up, where Ash meets his gaze. Eiji rests there a breath and looks away.
When Eiji’s hands are warm, Ash’s hands slowly slide away until only their fingertips touch. He tilts his head, lightly pressing the fingertips of Eiji’s left hand. “Those are some calluses,” he muses. “You play guitar?”
Eiji pulls his hands back. “No.”
Ash looks curious but says nothing more, turning his gaze out into the dark bushes. Hands in his pockets again, Eiji sinks into the back of the bench.
Nothing for several minutes.
Getting restless with the stillness, Eiji sneaks a look at Ash out of the corner of his eye. He feels daring for once, so he presses his knee to Ash’s. Ash meets the pressure.
In a hushed tone, Ash says, “My apartment is nearby.”
“…Okay.”
Ash stands and pulls Eiji up with a hand. They retrace their path across the mulch to the gate and back out the alleyway, and once on the street, they don’t say a word as they walk the five minutes to Ash’s apartment, pulse quick and hot in Eiji’s throat.
The building is five stories tall, a bit run down from the outside, and Ash leads Eiji up three flights to a door numbered 309. Ash unlocks it.
“I know it’s small,” Ash says by way of apology, holding the door for Eiji and shutting it once he’s inside.
Eiji scans the place, clicks of Ash locking the door behind him. “No, it’s fine.”
The entryway turns right into the kitchen, dark in shadow until Ash flicks on a small overhead. It’s not messy, but it’s not particularly organized either, random things lying out on the counters. There’s not a speck of decoration on the walls. A single armchair sits in the entranceway. The normality of the space in contrast to the glitz and show of the club imbues Eiji with a sense of intimacy.
Ash rests his guitar and peels off his leather jacket. He looks back at Eiji. In the overhead light, his hair glints.
Eiji stays rooted where he is, merely observing Ash approach. Ash stops right in front of him, unflinchingly serious, and Eiji’s gut twists.
Ash brushes the back of his knuckles on Eiji’s cheek. His hand hovers, then slips to cup the back of Eiji’s neck, thumb pressed to Eiji’s cheek.
He leans in and kisses him. Eiji kisses back, hands pressing Ash’s sides to steady himself.
As the kiss warms up, Ash places his other hand to Eiji’s face, pulling him closer. Lips soft but sure, he takes his time, easing into a rhythm. Eiji’s hands slip to his back, feeling his breath under the silky fabric of the cheetah print tank.
Ash leisurely kisses Eiji’s neck. His hands play with the collar of Eiji’s jacket a moment before unzipping it. Eyes shut, Eiji leans into the kisses, tilting his head.
Ash guides the jacket off Eiji’s shoulders. It falls to the floor. His hands begin to unbutton Eiji’s shirt, button by button. Eiji squirms as Ash’s hands graze his bare skin to push the shirt off to join the jacket on the floor.
For a moment, Eiji forgets.
Ash pulls back and skims a hand down the length of Eiji’s left arm to link their fingers. As he does, he glances down.
Eiji freezes.
Reminders, exposed to Ash, left on the inside of Eiji’s arm―scarred skin from injections along the inner veins. Ash notices, pauses, but he makes no comment and resumes kissing Eiji’s neck, hand warm in Eiji’s.
Eyes open and throat closed, Eiji stares past him. Hands shaking. He doesn’t lean into Ash’s touch.
Ash stops, peering into Eiji. “Is something wrong?”
Eiji shakes his head, but before he can contain them, sudden tears fall down his cheeks.
There’s an awkwardness, a stiffness in Ash’s body language that wasn’t there before. “Uh―Did―”
Eiji presses his hands to his eyes, cheeks slick. “Sorry, sorry,” he chokes out. “You didn’t―It’s not you.” He attempts to regain himself with a stuttering breath, but the tears don’t stop. “Sorry. I shouldn’t―I shouldn’t have come here.”
After a tick of silence, Ash says, “You don’t need to apologize.”
Neither moves for a few minutes. The apartment echoes.
Slowing down some, Eiji wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he says again.
Ash shakes his head, leaning down to pick up Eiji’s fallen shirt. He hands it back. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks, inching toward the kitchen as Eiji slips his shirt back on. “I really only have alcohol and water, but…”
Eiji sniffs and considers. “Water.”
Plucking up a glass from a mostly empty overhead cupboard, Ash fills it up in the sink and places it on the counter for Eiji to get himself.
“Thanks,” Eiji says, voice weak, picking up the glass. Ash watches him from a careful distance on the other side of the counter.
A soft clink as Eiji sets the empty glass on the table.
“Since it’s late,” Ash begins, gauging Eiji’s reaction, “you could stay in my room, if you want. I’ll stay out here.” He points to the single armchair in the entranceway.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that―”
“No, it’s fine. That chair is pretty comfortable, actually.” He cracks a smile that immediately fades. “But if you want to leave, then go.”
Hand resting on the counter, Eiji rotates the glass around and around. “I… Okay. My apartment is kind of far away.”
Ash directs him to the room, the only main room in the apartment, with a bathroom across from it, and with a shut door, Eiji is alone. He stands a moment, taking in the simple dark blue bedspread (unmade), the closed shade over the only window, and the messy closet. Other than the closet, the room is spartan, no lamp, not a speck to distract from the dingy white of four walls enclosing him.
Flicking off the overhead, Eiji crawls into the bed, burrowing himself and the scars on his left arm deep into dark blue. Streetlight through the shade is silver and hazy on the floor and end of the bed.
With an exhale, Eiji shuts his eyes. Even on the bedspread, a hint of cigarettes lingers.
He wakes in the morning to fierce sunlight. For a second he blinks around the room, disoriented, before sitting up and rubbing his eyes. They’re crusty, dried out from crying.
Eventually, he runs a hand through rumpled hair and clambers out of bed. He stops at the door, listening, and slowly cracks it open. The kitchen area is dark, looking unused, so Eiji tiptoes out further, only to stop again, spotting Ash sprawled out on the armchair. Utterly passed out, Ash does not stir, hair splattered on the armrest and black smudged around his shut eyes.
After a moment, Eiji creeps back to the room, making the bed and collecting his stuff, before scanning the kitchen. He finds a plain slip of paper lying on the counter and a ballpoint pen right next to it. With another glance at sleeping Ash, he stands, pen poised, unsure what he wants to say.
He writes, eventually.
Thank you for letting me stay. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.
Eiji leaves the note on the counter, retrieves his jacket still lying on the floor, and inches to the front door. Slipping on the shoes and jacket, he looks back at Ash, who remains oblivious.
The door clicks shut after Eiji.
Winter is closing in. Colorful lights and seasonal decorations poke up in every window, and the air continues to chill, bringing with it numb lips and frosty, smoke-like breath.
After a long shift at the restaurant, Eiji wanders the city in spite of his aching feet to burn off the itch in his fingers. He considers the possibility of snow with the tranquil hum in the air.
His feet take him to a downward slope he now knows well, and before he can even see the neon sign near the bottom of the hill, echoing guitar and drum beats hit him. He slows some as he comes closer, eyeing the marquee. He recognizes the song.
Gaze lingering, he pushes himself onward, passing the door and leaving the guitar behind him. For some time, it seems, he can still catch faint quieting bits of the song over the noise of people and cars.
No snow yet tonight, nor does it lie waiting for him in the morning. Just still, quiet cold.
“Table four,” says the cook, sliding a steaming dish to Eiji.
“Got it.” He picks it up and heads out of the kitchen, maneuvering around another waiter headed back in. Like usual, Eiji wears a simple button down shirt, sleeves uncomfortably buttoned down at his wrists instead of rolled up.
A young girl hops in his way, apparently on the way the the restroom, and Eiji smiles and moves aside for her. The front glass door chimes open.
As he approaches table four, seated along a divider blocking the front from the table, Eiji checks the front, seeing that no one else is out there to seat the new guest. “Here you go, ma’am,” he says, smiling again as he lowers the plate down before a middle aged woman. He turns to what he assumes is her husband. “Yours will be right out in a moment, sir.”
With their thanks and a dip of his head, Eiji weaves around the divider for the front podium. He stops in his tracks.
Ash blinks at him, brows raised.
“U-Uh,” Eiji manages, forcing himself into motion. His waiter voice comes in. “Ah, hello! Would―Are you looking for a table?”
“Yeah,” Ash says, slowly, testing.
Fingers trembling, Eiji skirts Ash’s gaze and scrambles together a menu from the front podium. He gestures into the seating area. “This way, please.”
Eiji leads him to an empty table along the wall under a painting of begonias, feeling his presence on his back. He places the menu down, and Ash slides into the seat.
“Someone will be with you to take your order in a moment,” Eiji says, turning to flee to the kitchen.
Once inside and out of view, distractedly, he hovers near the wall, pulse in his ears, until the cook shouts, “Okumura! Table four!”
Eiji takes the dish out to the man at table four, passing by Ash’s table without a look. But, everyone else is busy, so taking in a breath, Eiji stops.
“Anything I can get you to drink?” he asks, pulling out the pad and pen from his pocket.
“Just water.” Ash scans Eiji. “And I’ll go ahead and order my food, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine.” Eiji takes it down.
Placing the pen and pad back, he goes to leave, but hesitates. Ash looks so normal sitting at his table. He wears a denim jacket, a regular white t-shirt, and regular jeans. No black around his eyes.
“Did you…” Eiji stops, pressing his lips together. “Did you know I worked here?”
“I didn’t.”
Eiji nods. “Okay.”
Flitting back to the kitchen, Eiji returns with Ash’s water. Ash mutters a thanks, and Eiji quickly turns to the other tables he’s serving, checking in on their meals, and when there’s nothing else for him to do, he steals away to the kitchen. Too soon, Ash’s dish is done, so he brings it out.
“Here you go,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Eyes down, Ash nods.
Walking away, Eiji checks the front door for anyone else and looks back at Ash, who cuts up his omelette into barely manageable pieces before wolfing down a bite. He doesn’t seem to be waiting for anyone.
Eiji takes care of the check for table four and bids the couple farewell, and by the time he returns, Ash’s plate is clean but for a thin residue of sauce. Ash draws absent minded lines in the sauce with a prong of his fork. He drops the fork down when he notices Eiji.
“Check?” Eiji asks, hand outstretched for the plate.
“Yeah.”
When he puts down a slip of paper, Ash pulls out two twenties. “Keep the change.”
Eiji blinks. “O-Okay.” He swallows, shaking himself out of it. “Well…”
They both hesitate. The front door chimes.
Ash stands, shoving his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket.
With a more genuine smile, Eiji says, “You know, this is like… Regular you.”
“Regular me?” Ash cocks his head. “Do you prefer the other me?”
“Probably any version of you is good.”
Ash stares, lips parted.
Sudden heat rushes up Eiji’s face. “Well!” he chirps. “Um, have a good day!”
After some thought, Ash dips his head.“Thanks,” he says. He backs away.
Eiji waves him goodbye, chest tightening as Ash looks back once before leaving the restaurant. Through the window, Ash disappears around the corner. Eiji’s hand falls to his side.
The air is conspicuously absent of a, See you around.
Eiji dives into his next customers. He has an urge to unbutton and roll up his stiff sleeves, but he doesn’t.
On a Thursday morning, Eiji wakes to blinding snow.
It must have come quietly in the night, for when Eiji flicked off the tv, took a shower, and crawled into his lumpy bed alone, the ground and sky were clear. For a moment childlike excitement rises up in him, and he flirts with the possibility of no work, but outside, plows already clear the way and people shuffle off to wherever they need. In a big city like this, no one has the time for a little snow.
He dresses warm, wearing a sweater under his winter jacket instead of his thin work button down, a ratty scarf he’s had since high school, gloves. Shoving his work shirt into a small backpack along with his wallet and keys, he leaves the apartment.
Cold seeps into his lungs. The front of his face, his lips, go numb. He walks as quickly as possible while keeping an eye out for slippery patches, snow crunching under his feet.
To his surprise, his day at work is busy with people flitting in for a mere hot drink and a refuge from the cold and wet. He walks the aisles of tables, searching for blond hair.
The door chimes all day.
A couple of days later, snow still remains on the ground, now trampled and gray. The temperature refuses to drop and put the snow out of its misery, and life continues as normal.
After work, Eiji changes into a sweater and bundles up for a walk. Blue snow in darkening twilight hugs the now clear sidewalk he strolls down. His eyes wander to glittering holiday lights and displays.
Down the slope again; the blinking marquee has Survival Axe as one of its performers tonight.
Eiji halts by the door, which is shut with the cold. The guitar from inside rumbles deep in his bones, a riff he knows well by now.
Exhaling, he offers some cash to the bouncer and ducks inside. Sound immediately overflows him as he stomps off snow from his shoes. He pulls off his layers, face burning with the sudden change in temperature, and waits for the song to end and cheers to allow him an unobtrusive entrance.
He takes his old, usual spot close to the bar (lit with rainbow string lights). On the stage, Ash, Shorter, and the others catch a quick moment before their next song.
In a silky black tank with a low V and his usual leather jeans, Ash takes a sip from a water bottle and fiddles with the neck of his guitar. He steps up to the mic to speak and freezes, spotting Eiji. The hesitation only lasts a breath, and he switches back to his other self, announcing the next song and counting it off.
The ballad has a quiet, almost exploratory sound to it tonight. Eiji claps when it’s over.
Soon, they finish their set, and to applause, the band gathers up their stuff. Ash waves at the crowd a final time, and his eyes find Eiji. With a short nod, he slips backstage.
Restless, Eiji turns to the bar and orders something that sounds tough. When the deep brown liquor arrives in a wide glass, he chugs the whole thing in one go, hating how it tastes. He considers ordering another, but taste staying on his tongue, he decides not, instead plopping down on a stool and tapping his fingers.
The crew resets the stage. The next band comes out. The band completes their set. The crew resets the stage.
Eiji sits, eyes constantly darting to the backstage door. He sits straighter every time it opens. He’s not alone at the bar―a group of people talk near him. He could eavesdrop, but he doesn’t have the focus to.
In the lull before the next to last band can arrive, the backstage door opens. It’s Ash. He pauses, squinting over heads for Eiji at the bar, and steps down into the crowd. Maybe ten feet from Eiji a couple of fans accost Ash, gushing over him and the band. Amicable, Ash stops and responds politely, allowing them a moment.
“Well, again, great performance tonight! See you around!”
Ash raises a hand as they pass by him. Waiting a breath, he ambles over to Eiji, hand in his jacket pocket, other hand clutching the strap of his guitar case.
“Sorry,” he says. “We packed up our shit right after so I couldn’t get out until now.”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
Lips pressed together, Ash studies Eiji, eyes eventually trailing down to the empty glass on the bar.
Silence.
“Um.” Eiji’s hand presses flat on the bar. “Sorry. About leaving so soon that morning. And avoiding you, I―”
Ash shakes his head. “No, I understand. Don’t feel bad.”
“I… I didn’t want to leave. Or avoid you. But I felt like I had to.”
Eiji looks down at the glass as the crowd erupts, the next band filing into place. They both allow a stretch of silence just between them.
“So, I’m…” Eiji’s voice shakes as he speaks over the din. “I’m forcing myself out of feeling like that.”
“…Okay.”
The band on the stage starts up with a ground shaking drum solo.
Eiji presses his hand over Ash’s and leans in to murmur, “It’s loud.”
Ash blinks, the dim lighting scarcely hiding the pink on his cheekbones. His hand flips up to hold Eiji’s.
After a moment, Eiji releases Ash’s hand and fishes out a couple of bills to drop to the bar. He stands. “Ready?” he asks, sliding his arms into his jacket and slipping on his gloves.
Ash swallows and nods. He makes no move to change anything about his plunging V-neck and his unzipped leather jacket, so with a sigh, Eiji puts his scarf around Ash’s neck.
“It’s cold,” he says.
Ash touches the scarf. “Oh. Thanks.” Carefully, he wraps it tighter around his neck, chin and locks of hair tucked in.
They leave the noise and heat for good, stepping into chilled air and drifts of aging snow. No words as they silently agree on a path up the hill and down a few streets. Through Waldron Street, passing the little alley park, and they reach Ash’s apartment building. It’s familiar, a repetition. Quickly, they shake off the cold and hop up the stairs. Eiji’s breath hides in his throat as Ash, more shakily, unlocks the door.
With a click, they’re in. Stepping in ahead, Eiji briefly looks over the entrance and kitchen (looking the same as before) before facing Ash. Ash presses the door shut with arm, eyes on Eiji. He sets aside his guitar.
Eiji lifts a hand and slowly pulls off his glove with his teeth. He lets it fall to the floor, and he does the same to the other glove, watching Ash’s adam’s apple bob. Shouldering out of his jacket and discarding it to the floor with his gloves, Eiji moves forward, stepping into Ash.
Ash inhales sharply. Eiji takes one end of the scarf around his neck and unwraps it loop by loop until Ash’s bare neck and chest are exposed. The scarf falls to the floor.
Hand to Ash’s cheek (cold, from biting winds), Eiji kisses him. Almost instantly, Ash opens his mouth, assured and firm.
Cold fades. Eiji lets Ash slowly back him up into the wall. Wanting more closeness, Eiji wraps his legs around Ash’s hips and presses into him. Ash hikes him up into the wall.
For a second Ash pulls back. Breathily, he asks, “Are you sure?”
Eiji runs his fingers through the back of Ash’s hair. “I’m sure.”
Meandering, getting sidetracked with kisses, Ash carries Eiji to his room. They flop down, Eiji’s back to the mattress. Feeling Ash gradually growing hard, Eiji pushes Ash off and straddles him. He slips a hand under the silky tank and Ash smirks, sitting up and pulling the tank off completely.
Eiji kisses down Ash’s chest and stomach, sliding down off the edge of the bed, hand groping Ash’s thigh through the leather. He undoes the fly and rubs Ash’s cock. With a flicker of a look up, Eiji takes Ash in his mouth.
Ash moans and bucks up to meet him. Eiji rubs soothing circles onto his thigh, even after Ash comes and Eiji pulls back.
Sitting up, Ash takes Eiji’s face in his hands and kisses him, pulling him back onto his lap. His hands drift down, but remain politely at Eiji’s hips without going underneath his sweater.
The kiss slows. Eiji breaks it. They look at each other in electric silence as Eiji decides. Slowly, he pulls his sweater overhead―tracking scars on his left arm.
Gently, Ash guides him to lie flat again, kisses placed to Eiji’s forehead and cheek. His hand glides down Eiji’s left arm and latches onto his fingers. Shutting his eyes, he brings Eiji’s hand to his cheek and leans into his palm. His face is warm now. Ash turns his head to kiss Eiji’s fingers, palm, wrist, and checking Eiji, down his forearm and scars.
Eiji watches him. The exposure instills an odd sensation at the back of his throat, but he is in no danger of crying.
Ash laces his fingers with Eiji’s and Eiji squeezes tight. Slowly, Ash works his way down Eiji’s chest, other hand palming Eiji while he sucks on Eiji’s nipples. Eiji grabs a fistful of his hair and pushes him down, impatient.
His hand stays in Ash’s hair, grounding him as Ash unzips his jeans and wraps his mouth around him. Writhing and arching his back, Eiji drops his head back. He breathes Ash’s name.
When the time comes, Eiji gasps, tugging at Ash’s hair as Ash swallows. They quiet, Ash still clutching Eiji’s other hand.
Eventually, Ash clambers back over Eiji. His hair drips down around his face. Makeup smudged on one side.
Wrapping an arm around Ash’s neck, Eiji pulls him into a kiss, and Ash quickly complies, hand brushing up Eiji’s side. Ash drops his hips to Eiji’s and digs, letting out a small groan on Eiji’s lips. Hurriedly, they both shimmy out of their remaining clothes.
Skin to skin, mouth to mouth.
Eiji hooks his leg around Ash’s thigh to whisper, “Please.”
Ash sucks on Eiji’s neck, humming in acknowledgment. He ducks aside for a small container of lube. “Tell me when,” he says, hand skimming up Eiji’s thigh.
One finger, two, three―Eiji nods.
Ash presses a kiss to Eiji’s brow. “Okay.” He eases himself into Eiji.
With sloppy, aimless kisses, the rhythm picks up. Eiji curls his legs tighter around Ash, aching with how delicately Ash touches him. Ash’s labored breath ghosts over Eiji’s ear.
Eiji comes first with a cry, and moments later, Ash shudders over him, voice strangled. Dipping his head, Ash presses his forehead to Eiji’s chest, riding with the fast rise and fall of his ribcage. Harsh exhales from both.
Ash pulls out and lifts his head, stroking Eiji’s sweat soaked hair away from his forehead. With a twitch of a smile he pulls away, grabbing a small towel.
Cleaned up, they exchange a look, as if unsure what happens next.
“I have an unused extra toothbrush, if you want it,” says Ash, straightening out a pillow.
Eiji picks up one of Ash’s casual shirts at random and slips it on. It’s a little long on him. “Okay.”
Together, they head to the bathroom, and Ash plucks out a toothbrush from the mirror cabinet, new in an unopened package. Opening it, Eiji rinses it out under the faucet.
As Eiji brushes his teeth, Ash stands behind, eyes on Eiji in the mirror. He rests his chin over Eiji’s shoulder, softly pressing his head to the side of Eiji’s head. When Eiji finishes and begins rinsing out the toothbrush, he steps back.
Squeak of the faucet. Eiji hands over the toothpaste.
With Eiji’s toothbrush now beside Ash’s, they flick off all the water and lights and return to Ash’s bedroom. Curling up in the sheets, they face each other. The lamplight reaches Ash more softly than before, and Eiji memorizes the smudged makeup, the messied hair.
Reaching out, Ash clasps Eiji’s hand again, thumb rubbing back and forth. Eiji’s eyes drift down; Ash’s hand is larger than his, skin paler, blue of his veins jumping out.
The shirt Eiji wears is three-quarter sleeved, just barely hiding the scars on his arm. His calluses press into Ash’s hand.
Several shallow breaths.
“I played violin,” Eiji says, raising his eyes. “Starting when I was six. Before, I was at Julliard.”
Ash says nothing, watching, listening.
Swallowing, Eiji squeezes Ash’s hand. “I loved violin―love violin―but it was tough. I… I got to a point where I didn’t love it, anymore. So I…” The scars on his arm radiate conspicuous heat. “I thought it would be fun, a distraction. I didn’t think I would be the kind of person to get attached but… I don’t know.
“My grades and performances slipped and I couldn’t talk to anyone so I eventually got kicked out of the program. I stayed here because it would’ve been harder to get my fix back home, and also… I couldn’t go home like that.” He exhales through his nose. “So I’ve been trying to stay busy, distracting myself with work. I’m getting more used to it. I haven’t used in a while, but it’s always in the back of my head.”
He readjusts his head on the pillow. “Recently, I felt myself missing music again, so I thought I’d try something completely different from what I’m used to, and…”
His voice falls silent.
Ash does not move, thumb still brushing the skin of Eiji’s hand. Nothing for a minute.
Ash’s thumb stills. “My brother raised me,” he begins, voice low. “He worked multiple jobs so I could go to school and take guitar lessons. He wanted me to have more than what he had.” He lowers his eyes. “But when I was in middle school he got into drugs. At first he just worked more hours to pay for it, but eventually money that was supposed to go to our rent and my stuff started disappearing. He was different; he started skipping shifts and forgetting things and wouldn’t listen to me.
“In high school it got so bad that I had to drop out and find small jobs because he couldn’t support us anymore. At the time, I… I really resented him for that. I still kept playing guitar when I could. I found Shorter and we started our band with just the two of us. We tried busking and found we could make a nice amount of money doing that, and eventually we found the other guys and someone asked us to perform at a real show.
“It was almost good, but my brother… I had to hide money from him because he would steal it and use it for drugs if I didn’t. I got so fed up with it that I moved out when I was seventeen. Our band was starting to get more popular and bringing in more money, so I…”
Ash presses his lips together. “I didn’t see him for four years, and then I got a call. Overdose.”
Outside his window, the wind howls.
“I just wish… I wonder if I could have done something for him.”
Eiji pulls Ash into his chest, cradling the back of his head, and Ash immediately sinks into him.
“You were just one kid,” Eiji murmurs, stroking Ash’s hair.
Ash doesn’t answer, hands curling into the back of Eiji’s shirt. Eiji presses a kiss to the top of his head.
Like this, Ash falls asleep, and when he’s completely limp, Eiji snakes out an arm to flick off the bedside lamp. He resettles, hugging Ash’s warmth close.
Golden sunlight wakes Eiji in the morning. Ash is gone, imprints left in the sheets and pillow beside Eiji. He yawns, picking himself up, and slips out to find Ash in the kitchen, hair wet and face freshly scrubbed free of makeup, standing over eggs sizzling in a pan.
Ash shoots a smile over his shoulder. “I’m not really much of a cook, but…”
“Thanks,” Eiji says, returning the smile and leaning into the counter.
“Are you…” Ash’s hand hovers, spatula held aloft. “Leaving soon?”
“I have nowhere to be.”
Looking down, Ash flips an egg, breaking the yolk. Bright yellow spills out into the pan. “Shit.”
Eiji laughs.
It still tastes fine.
More snow, more crisp winds, and Eiji becomes a regular sight for Survival Axe. After his long days at work he spends nights with the noise and smoke, and helps the group with transporting instruments and supplies. Sometimes he trails along to rehearsals.
“No,” Ash snaps, stopping in the middle of a bridge. He glares at the keyboardist. “You keep coming in early.”
“Look, it just feels right to come in on three.”
“But it’s not supposed to be three.”
“But it’s supposed to sound good. ”
Ash clenches his jaw.
Leaning into the wall, Eiji folds his arms. “I agree.”
Everyone looks up. Ash blinks with wide eyes.
Speaking directly to Ash, Eiji says, “If he comes in on three, there’s a more gradual build that makes it more satisfying. Otherwise, it gets buried in a wall of noise that feels unearned.”
Behind Ash, the others share looks, but no one speaks.
Ash heaves a sigh. “Fine. I guess we can try it.” He shoots Eiji an almost abashed look in response to the placid smile on Eiji’s mouth.
Before they restart the measure, the keyboardist gives Eiji a nod.
Another day, another week, Eiji watches their rehearsal with scrutiny. During a break, Ash tunes his guitar with a sour look, irritated with the cold skewing the tuning. Shorter sidles up to Eiji and nudges him.
“You know, I’m glad you’re here,” he says, pushing up his sunglasses. His hair is orange this week. “Ash doesn’t have a lot of close friends.”
“Mm.” Eiji’s eyes flicker to Ash, who tests a strum with hand waving in bravado.
“Also, you keep him from being an ass all the time. Now it’s just most of the time.”
Eiji laughs.
Slowly, the humor fades, and Shorter takes on a more serious expression. “But really. I’m glad you ended up here.”
Eiji says nothing for a moment. “Me too.”
With a loud screech of guitar, Ash grumbles, “Fucking finally.”
In the green room after a show, Eiji helps everyone pack up their stuff.
Unthinkingly, he grabs a case resting on the floor, processing it as a guitar until it hangs light and compact in his hand.
“Oh, that’s not ours,” says the keyboardist.
“Yeah, I don’t know whose it is,” Shorter adds, slinging his own guitar case over his shoulder. “None of the other bands had a violin.”
The case grows heavy in Eiji’s hand. “I’ll just leave it,” he says, voice even, carrying it to the wall and propping it up. “Someone is probably looking for it.”
No one gives it a second thought, but Eiji senses Ash’s gaze on him.
He goes to work, appears at their shows at different venues, but when they return to that first club, the violin remains leaning on the wall. The others have forgotten it. Carrying part of the drum set, Eiji passes by, eyes drawn to it.
After, he spends the night with Ash, Ash curled up into his back with an arm around him. Ash drifts off. Softly tapping fingerings onto the back of Ash’s hand, Eiji is awake for a long time.
New year. Fireworks burst overhead, people chatter in a tipsy buzz.
Ash takes Eiji’s hand, cold with no glove, and squeezes. Eiji’s calluses aren’t hidden.
No new snow for a while, the old snow hardened and icy now, easy to slip on for uncareful feet. Eiji gets a violently purple bruise at the base of his spine from such a tumble, color worrying Ash only until Eiji tells him how he got it. Ash laughs.
Survival Axe’s performances slow for a little while as the city readjusts to the new year. As people quit their habits (for a few weeks, a month), clubs and rock bands aren’t hot items in January. But it picks up eventually, and they’re back to performing regularly. Alongside his job, Eiji attends as many as he can as well as other performances from different bands.
In the green room of that one club, the violin case rests along the wall, unclaimed.
Brow furrowed, Ash continues to fiddle with the tuning of his guitar, smoking cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“It sounds fine,” Eiji says.
If it were anyone else Ash might’ve had a choice remark, but since it’s Eiji and since Eiji has an ear for pitch, he merely sighs and plucks at the strings. They twang weakly, not plugged into an amp. “I guess,” he mumbles, voice pinched.
Eiji snatches the cigarette from his lips and takes a drag. “No need to guess.”
Ash rolls his eyes, but nevertheless, he relaxes bunched shoulders. “I should head backstage. We’re on soon.”
“Good luck.”
Ash retakes his cigarette and puffs a stream of smoke. He hands it back to Eiji, smiling wryly. “Thanks.”
Shorter waves to Eiji as he follows Ash and they leave him to clouds of smoke and humming light panels.
Usually, this is where he would sneak out into the audience to watch their performance, but Eiji leans back into the wall, smoking the cigarette to its end. He smushes it out in the plate on the floor, and scans the room. He’s alone. He would be alone.
The violin case sits there.
Applause and the beginning notes of Survival Axe’s first song burst out from a distance, snapping Eiji out of his stupor. With a flicker of a look back, he creeps forward, pulse thumping. He stops and crouches before the case.
Hand on the latch. He flips it open.
Books cascade out.
Eiji stares, blankly, now emptied case showing no violin, no bow, no rosin. A disappointed weight hangs over him as he stuffs the books back inside and latches it shut again. Leaving it back propped on the wall, he springs up and darts out through the hallways and out the backstage door. Electric guitar and synth fill his ears. He weaves his way to his normal spot near the back, where when the song ends, Ash shoots him a barely noticeable questioning look.
Eiji claps alongside the audience.
It’s an impulse.
Eiji stops by a nearby music store. He doesn’t go in, merely peers through the glass to warm lights and rows of instruments and materials. Violins sit at the back, beyond guitars and drum sets.
The doorbell jingles as a young girl hops out with her mother, arms laden with a clunky case seemingly too big for her. Eiji hops out of the way and avoids their eyes.
Hands in his pockets. He splits, turning down a block.
He itches, but not for something in his bloodstream.
Twang.
“Dammit,” growls Ash, snapped steel string flopping over the body of his guitar. Setting the guitar aside, he roots around the pouch in his case, but comes up empty. He drops his hands in defeat. “Guess I gotta go get more.”
“You play too roughly,” Shorter teases. “It’s like fucking; you gotta be firm, but gentle.”
Ash grimaces, fitting his guitar into his case. “Shut up.” He clicks it shut and meets Eiji’s eyes, hand resting on his knee. “Want to go with me?”
“Sure.”
Ash leaves his guitar in Shorter’s protection, and they head off. Eiji keeps his face and movements neutral as the music shop comes into sight, sidewalk awash with that warm light. The bell jingles overhead as Ash opens the door. He holds it for Eiji. Breath held, Eiji pauses a second, but forces himself through the threshold.
No one else is in the shop, but the sales clerk’s “Hi, can I help you?” goes unheard to Ash, who makes a beeline for guitar accessories and leaves Eiji to answer.
“Um, no… Just looking.”
“Okay!” The clerk smiles brightly. “Let me know if you need anything!”
Eiji nods, mutely, watching the clerk’s curly brown ponytail bounce at her shoulders as she turns from him. “Actually―”
She looks back, eyebrows raised.
“Um.” Eiji scuffs his sneaker on the carpet. “Could―Could you show me the violins?”
Her smile returns. “Absolutely!”
They end up at the back wall, and she lists off various attributes of each of the manufacturers, and Eiji nods without saying a word, already well aware.
“…but if you’re looking for something for a beginner, I’d recommend this.” The clerk points to one of the more inexpensive violins. “It’s good quality but you don’t need to worry about having the best quality when you start out.”
“Right.”
A footfall, and Eiji’s head whips around. Ash stands behind clutching his package of strings.
Ash opens his mouth, closes it, until he decides on, “Anything you like?”
Eiji slowly nods. “Yeah, I think so.”
Ash nods back.
“So…” prompts the clerk, getting Eiji to face her again.
“Oh, yes, um…” He points at the one she recommended. “That’s fine.”
“Great! I’ll get one from the back and then we can look at rosin and bows together, okay?”
“Awesome, thanks.”
She disappears through an employee door. Eiji’s fingers curl into the cuff of his jacket.
“You sure about this?” Ash asks.
As an explanation, Eiji says, “I’m getting a beginner’s one.”
Ash frowns, but he doesn’t get a chance to reply as the clerk returns with a black violin case.
“Okay, now let’s head over here to…”
They leave the store in bell chimes with guitar strings, rosin, bow, and a violin tucked away in a case.
Shorter’s still messing around with his guitar when they get back. “Huh, what’s that?” he asks, pushing up his sunglasses.
Eiji sits down and opens the case for him to see. Hesitantly, Ash sits opposite, watching him while opening his package of strings.
“Wait, you know how to play violin?” says Shorter.
Plucking out the violin and inspecting what he’s working with, Eiji replies, “I used to.”
Shorter does nothing. Ash replaces his broken string.
Practiced, Eiji tunes the violin to his liking, awash with the familiarity of the sensation. He moves onto the bow, tightening the hairs appropriately, and unsheathes the rosin. Their quality is not quite what he’s accustomed to, but it’s enough.
With nothing more to prep, Eiji rests the violin on his shoulder, testing out the weight. His fingers glide over the fret, calluses rewarded in their usefulness, for once.
Shorter and Ash are still, intent.
Eiji shuts his eyes. With a great inhale, he places the bow to the strings. Fingertips press into strings.
He plays an experimental note, chest filling with reverberation. The tone of this cheaper violin isn’t what he wants it and at first that’s all he can think about, but he ignores his critical ear and tries to reclaim that awe from when he first saw Caprice no. 24 performed live.
He plays a small warm-up exercise and finishes it with vibrato, silence hovering as he slowly pulls away his bow. He opens his eyes.
Shorter’s mouth gapes open. Ash stares with wide, wet eyes.
Eiji lowers the violin and bow. “Something like that,” he says, lightly. “I’ll have to practice more.”
Shorter glances at Ash. “Hey, think the others would be interested in adding violin to the band?”
“Eh?”
Ash nods, seriously. “Yeah, I think they would.” His eyes find Eiji’s. “But only if you want to.”
Arms slack, Eiji looks down at his hands, one holding the neck of his violin and the other holding the bow. They don’t itch.
He exhales. “Yeah, okay.”
Ash smiles and readjusts the guitar on his lap.
Returning to his own apartment, Eiji flicks on the light and enters his bedroom. He rests the violin case on the wall, where it guards him carefully.
Eiji peels off his jacket and sits down in a long unworn short sleeve t-shirt. Air hugs the open skin of his arms.