Work Text:
Rohan Kishibe, twenty-four-year-old mangaka, would try anything once. It’s why he’s here now, in a building crammed tight with sweaty, dancing bodies, the sound of metal music pulsating so deep in his eardrums he thinks he can feel his very brain vibrating. While most folks of this dingy S-City club are leather-and-band-tee clad, he wears a crisp white crop top, and headband to match; Rohan always stuck out like a sore thumb, but his disinterested expression as he nursed a drink at the bar truly made him look like a lost duck at this rock concert. He was glad for the thrumming, violent noise of the live performance, as any poor attempts at flirtation that had been made against him by a few brave souls had been waved off with a head shake and a “Sorry, what? What?” on his part.
Security had told him he had to put his camera away, and that recording the performance was prohibited. He was being very mature about it and not sulking at all. No sir. He wished he had brought ear plugs in order to lessen the severity of the ringing he’d definitely be hearing later; his plans of gathering reference shots of tightly packed crowds had been foiled.
All experiences are meaningful, he tried to remind himself, somewhat uselessly, as he made a quick note in his small notepad. About the way the heavy metal music and violence in the electric guitar scratched an itch deep inside him, the sound all at once unpleasant but concordant in his ears. It wasn’t his preferred type of music, no, but it was tolerable. Straw-in-mouth, he finally turned toward the stage.
Was that guitarist familiar? He wasn’t sure. He popped the slice of lime from his drink into his mouth and held it there for a while, tucking the notepad into his carry-on portfolio and pulling out his spiral drawing pad. With experienced ease, Rohan flipped his sketchbook open to a fresh page, as blank and white as his t-shirt. Photography be damned, sure. They couldn’t take his charcoal away.
Even from a distance, the guitarist radiated character. I can definitely see him making an appealing manga character, he thought. A minor antagonist or anti-hero buddy for his main character, given his rough-edged appearance. Rohan’s hand moved fast, in the same frantic and chaotic beat as the guitarist’s shredding, the two oddly in sync, even at a distance, even without knowing each other’s names. Rohan sketched him leaning over his instrument, long lavender hair falling over the strings. The side of the man’s head was shaved, the design of a lightning bolt exposing his pale scalp, wet with sweat from the stage lights. From across the venue, Rohan could barely make out his black nail polish, his white knuckles gripping his glinting guitar pick, and the way the man’s silver lip rings flashed artificial light back at him. And that facial scar… that scar really was familiar. He made sure to get the other odd markings that adorned the guitarist’s arms, coiling up around his fishnet-clad biceps. It looked like he’d been struck by lightning.
Rohan ordered another drink, and then another. He was trying to study the way that guitar looked, the way the man held it, swung it around as he played. Although he couldn’t place the familiarity of the man, the violence with which he wielded his artistic weapon was too akin to looking in the mirror for Rohan, gripping his 2B charcoal pencil in hand. As he focused on his sketching, pages rippling with drawings despite the people throwing him odd looks, Rohan found that the ringing in his ears had quieted, like he had found a certain, perfect wavelength.
Was this what it was to enjoy music?
“— Thank you! We’ve been Thunderstruck!” The guitarist shouted hoarsely into the microphone, grin wide, sweat pouring down his face.
Over already? Rohan thought absent-mindedly, not realizing just how many minutes and songs had passed. He plucked a maraschino cherry from his recent glass and bit down on it, sweetness filling his mouth as he added some final shading to his drawing’s mussed hair.
The band dispersed, artificial music from the overhead speakers filling the small venue with white noise. More and more people crowded around the bar, sweaty and thirsty — disgruntled, Rohan pushed past them, scooting along the wall until he was somewhat close to the stage. It was when he paused for a moment, sketchbook in hand and fingers stained with charcoal, that he realized just how tipsy he was. The world spun for a moment and an aching headache caught up with him; his ears rung and temples pounded painfully. He’d been too intent on drawing to realize it. Dumbass, he called himself, with a sigh. At 24, was he already getting too old for this sort of jaunt? Please God, tell me no.
“Kishibe-sensei. Kishibe-sensei!”
Hmm? Sensei?
He knew he stuck out like a sore thumb in most places, but he wasn’t expecting to be called out to here. Dumbly, half-drunk, Rohan looked around, scanning the crowd of people for any eyes trained on him.
It was only when he chanced a glance at the thin strip leading backstage that he saw bright, orange eyes gazing at him, wide and full of danger like a cat’s. The grin on that face denoted mischief, excitement.
The guitarist from before beckoned Rohan backstage with his hand. Unable to deny his curiosity, Rohan, of course, complied.
“Do I know you?” was the first thing Rohan asked the violet-haired man, sizing him up with his sketchbook tucked neatly against his side, the other hand on his free hip.
“— I can’t believe you’re here! Like, what a coincidence! I looked out into the crowd during T.N.T and saw you there, right away! It was like my eyes were drawn to you, man, like magic! Couldn’t take my eyes off you drawing like that. It was a sight to behold, got me totally pumped up!!” The man was exclaiming, prattling on, just a little bit louder than the music playing overhead. He leaned in close so Rohan could hear him better; with Rohan’s eyes trained upward, he could see sweat beaded on his hairline, the way stray hairs stuck to his face. It was those kinds of details that Rohan found charming.
“Do I know you?” Rohan asked again, louder this time.
“Oh! My bad. Of course you wouldn’t remember.” He slung his guitar across his back, a particularly cool yet casual movement, and offered Rohan his hand. Once again, he leaned in close to his ear, yelling, “Otoishi Akira. I’m from Morioh-Cho. I bugged you for your autograph, like— shit, a whole year ago. It’s, like, my prized possession, man.”
Ah. A fan. Rohan gripped his hand tightly. He yelled back in Akira’s ear: “Stand user?”
He felt like he already knew the answer. Non-stand users didn’t look like that.
Akira grinned a toothy grin at him, orange eyes gleaming with some haughty emotion that Rohan found very familiar. “You bet,” he told the mangaka. “You gotta be, too, right?”
“Hm,” Rohan said, leaving Akira to interpret that as he would. No wonder he felt so drawn to the guitarist— maybe it hadn’t been the music. Stand users could always recognize each other in a crowd. At least, the ones from Morioh could.
“Listen,” Akira was saying, and suddenly rifled through the front pocket of his studded leather pants. Rohan tracked the movement, gaze swiping once over the man’s toned abs, barely covered by a fishnet undershirt. “I want you to have this, man.”
He caught Rohan’s hand again, this time pressing something into it. Both of their hands were clammy. He unfurled his fingers, and a metallic gold guitar pick laid within his charcoal-covered palm. It was the one Akira had just finished using in the set minutes ago.
Head pounding, Rohan asked, “What for?”
“As thanks for the autograph!” Akira told him. Rohan could smell beer on his breath as he leaned in closer, a hand tentatively coming up to brace on Rohan’s shoulder. “Listen, Rohan-sensei, let’s go out back for a minute. I need a cigarette — I got more I want talk to you about.”
Talking more was not at the forefront of Rohan’s priorities. Cigarettes and fresh air, however, sounded delightful. The scales tipped, and Rohan nodded briskly.
Whoever this Akira was simultaneously pissed off and intrigued Rohan as he encouraged him out the back door with his hand lightly pressed against the small of Rohan’s back. He couldn’t tell if this was some poor flirtation, bad manners, or genuine admiration — he was escorting Rohan as though he were royalty of some degree. Too tipsy to wrap his head around it nor complain, Rohan allowed himself to be ushered. The freezing air hitting his face as the door creaked open was more than welcome.
“Ahh,” Rohan sighed in relief.
“Jesus Christ,” Akira grimaced as he followed Rohan to stand against the weathered brick wall, hands immediately tucking into his armpits to shield his almost-bare chest from the offensive winter air. “— talk about a wake-up call. I was on fire a minute ago.”
Rohan hummed a chuckle. He found that goofy voice of Akira’s much more tolerable when he wasn’t shouting conversation over System of a Down. After Akira offered Rohan a cigarette and the two of them lit up, smoking quietly in the cold, the mangaka couldn’t help the several directions his curiosity took him in. He was still wondering about those strange scars that hugged the man’s arms – and throat too, he realized, now that he was closer.
“What did you—“ Rohan started.
“So, what’s your—“ Akira started.
The two of them looked at each other and, after a moment, snickered softly.
Around the cigarette, Akira said, “Go ahead.”
“What did you want to tell me, Otoishi-san?”
“Oh, right! I was sorta thinking of sending it to you in a fan letter or something, but that just felt so impersonal, and I bet you get so many that it’s too tough to read ‘em all, but— I just wanted to thank you,” Akira said, meeting Rohan’s gaze with an artist’s intensity. “You inspired me a lot these last couple years. Even though you don’t know me at all. Funny the way that is, huh? Long story short — I did a bit of, uh, jail time. Read a lot of manga and stuff to pass the time, played on my guitar like fucking crazy. Can’t fully explain it, but I felt really connected to you while reading your manga. Like, my buddies would tease me because I’d get all emotional and shit, reading it. I liked reading your author’s notes and stuff, too. I became a real huge fan, ‘cuz I realized you were a lot like me in a lot of ways. Communicating and stuff, with your art. And the fact you’re from Morioh, too!? Just, took the cake. Saw myself a lot in the things you wrote. Hell, in your drawings, too. So, yeah.”
Akira took one long drag on his cigarette before flicking it onto the ground, finally turning to face Rohan. His previously sweaty face was pale, his body covered in goosebumps. Yet still, he appeared flushed and happy, like he’d spoken words that had been on his mind for years, words that he had rehearsed before falling asleep at night. The tips of his nose and ears were bright red. He flashed a toothy grin at the mangaka. “Probably stupid, but I had to tell you. So, thanks.”
With those stupid guitarist hands, he’d deftly plucked one or two of Rohan’s heartstrings. Just one or two. I swear.
Rohan met his gaze, hoping he could hide how touched he was. Even if he didn’t show it, he was always feeling touched by his readers. “You’re welcome,” he said softly, sincerely, and then added as a small jab, talking around his cigarette: “— I read all my fan letters. I’m not an asshole.”
“Gotcha,” Akira snickered, and lit up another cigarette. “I’ll remember that.”
In a way, Rohan admired Akira’s honesty in that moment, the way he wore his heart on his sleeve in conversation, like he had nothing to hide at all. For a moment, he quieted, trying to figure out how to word a way to tell him that his music was accomplishing a similar effect to Rohan’s manga. That wavelength he had sat comfortably in, drawing while Akira played, tuned in like there was no one else in the world beside them two, had been something special, now that Rohan was thinking about it. Parallel play, almost. Amplifying each other. Communication, inspiration, competition; these words flashed in Rohan’s mind.
However, the sentiment died on Rohan’s tongue. He thought of Reimi’s pink eyes, glistening. He still had a long way to go before he could speak his heart without pretense, without the middle man of manga. He closed his lips around his cigarette once more.
“Can I see what you were drawin’ during the show?” Akira asked, pointing to the spiral book Rohan kept pressed against his side.
Why not, Rohan thought. He passed it over. Balancing his cigarette carefully between his teeth, Akira opened the book from the beginning, eyes slowly scanning over each drawing like he was studying for a test. Occasionally, he chuckled familiarly at sights from Morioh rendered in pencil, eyes shining at the supermarket and café and library he’d probably visited a hundred times since childhood. Akira didn’t say anything about the long segment of pages filled with a dress-clad girl, sitting beside a loyal dog; just smoked thoughtfully and carried on.
Finally, he arrived at the night’s drawings. Rohan had filled about fifteen pages of just Akira during the brief time of the concert. Studies of the sticker-covered guitar, the way the bones on Akira’s hand flexed against the strings, the platform combat boots he wore and how many times his shoelaces crossed back and forth before reaching the top, the smooth plane of his waist and the piercing that sat just above his belly button. Akira grinned at the page studying the jagged scars that snaked up his arms.
He felt dissected by the artist on these pages, like nothing more than a science experiment. Despite the cold piercing his skin, Akira felt his face heating up with redness. Never in his life had someone made him feel… weirdly beautiful, like this. Like somebody worth studying.
“…these are really fucking good,” Akira said, softer than he intended as he closed the book.
Rohan hummed his thanks, finally returning the book to his mobile portfolio.
“You could see that much from the bar?”
“The stage lights helped,” Rohan informed him. Unable to hide his curiosity, he asked, “What are those scars from?”
“Oh, these? Stupid fight I got into with another stand user. Got electrocuted. I almost died, for real – nurse at the hospital told me it was as bad as gettin’ hit with three lightning bolts at once.” Akira told him, rubbing his hands together briskly to try and generate warmth there. He shot a smug grin Rohan’s way, like getting his ass handed to him by Josuke was a proud achievement somehow. “Make me look like a badass though, right?”
Rohan chuckled his response, shaking his head. He was unable to quell his curiosity any longer. Hearing about people’s memories was good – he was getting more and more used to talking and asking and conversation than he ever had been in his life – but sometimes, it wasn’t enough. Sometimes he saw a person or heard a story and wanted to live inside their memories, to see the sights and sounds for himself, to feel what they felt. And he’d be damned if he wasn’t curious about what three lightning bolts of electricity felt like.
“Stay still, Akira-kun.” Rohan instructed, coming to stand in front of the musician. To any curious onlookers, it would almost look like he had momentarily pinned the man to the wall.
Too caught off guard to fully voice his surprise, Akria’s mouth simply opened around a question when his face suddenly fluttered open with the pages of a book. His hand flew upward to touch, feeling glossy print instead of skin. Slightly panicked, he managed, “Ow, what the fuck?”
“Don’t say ‘ow’ like it hurts,” Rohan instructed him with a pinch of irritability, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Heaven’s Door, who had appeared suddenly. Its childlike eyes bore a hole into Akira’s face, the same curiosity burning within its emerald green gaze as was present in Rohan’s.
The guitarist had to fight the urge that rose within him suddenly to summon Chili Pepper – he had to remind himself that he definitely wasn’t in danger. This was just, uh… different.
“Heaven’s Door, Akira-kun; Akira-kun, Heaven’s Door. — your book is a CD pamphlet. I’ve never seen one like this before.” He tutted in annoyance. “You keep too many song lyrics in here.”
“Whaaaat are you doing…?” Akira asked, awkwardly holding his burning cigarette between two fingers by his side. He tried his best to keep still. If he felt like the man’s science experiment before, he certainly felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, now. His heart raced with excitement and nerves.
“This is my ability. I can see every detail of your life written here.” Rohan was courteous enough to explain to him. “— Koichi tells me it’s rude to read people without their permission. I’m getting better - I really am,” He was telling him, occupied by skimming through Akira’s book for any interesting tidbits. “For example, I didn’t read you the moment I stepped backstage like I really wanted to.”
“Heaven’s Door is your stand’s na— hey, that really tickles, man—“ Akira exclaimed suddenly as Rohan flipped through ten or twenty pages in succession, skipping a terse childhood. He squirmed uncomfortably under the mangaka’s watchful eye. “Yanno, I’m an open book already— no pun intended, Sensei. And for your information, I haven’t used my stand against anybody in two years. I’m doin’ way better than you are.”
“So I see. Stop fidgeting. It’s faster this way.” Rohan informed him, momentarily making eye contact with a quirked brow. He skimmed more of the story, reading about some events that had occurred before he’d moved into his Morioh house.
Ah, so that’s what had become of Okuyasu’s brother. Hm.
“This part looks familiar,” Rohan muttered as he reached a play-by-play breakdown of Josuke and Akira’s standoff. His ribs ached vaguely at the description.
“Can I finish my cigarette?” Akira asked innocently.
“If you want to burn your memories away,” Rohan replied, flipping a page.
“Can we go inside for this? — My balls are starting to freeze off.”
“Shut up for a minute,” Rohan insisted, engrossed. “—you took 10,000 milliamps of your own electricity?” He added incredulously, the word idiot written in his eyes as he looked back up at Akira. Red Hot Chili Pepper taking on all of the electricity in Morioh during his fight with Josuke hadn't been without physical consequences, Akira then mostly being fueled by adrenaline and the sheer panic of being caught.
The guitarist grinned like it was something to be proud of. “All my muscles were pretty much frozen solid for a bit,” he told him, which Rohan read about moments after. “Zero out of ten recommend the experience.”
Hm, he thought. It was a miracle the man was even standing. Lucky break.
The prison part was what Rohan was really interested in. And it was an interesting read; he took his time with it. Akira felt trodden on after his fight with Josuke. Utterly defeated, yet indignant still. His ego went through all the stages of grief. He was friendless, starting at ground zero— everything felt “for fucking nothing”, Heaven’s Door read. It was at his lowest when he started playing guitar again; a year into his sentence that he remembered how music was a language, his form of communication, his connection to the world. He was nothing without his guitar in hand, a vessel for the art to flow through. When days passed without playing, he began to feel helpless, frustrated, stuck in place. Once that had clicked in his head, everything before seemed infinitely stupid, and his life in prison was as pleasant as it would have been spent outside. Akira hadn’t been lying— there had been a lot of manga reading, but also, quite a lot of other art, too. Horror movies and classic literature and drawing and music of all kinds. He really hadn’t summoned Red Hot Chili Pepper for any fighting in years, too; that had been the truth. There hadn’t been a need for it, besides to channel electricity during technical difficulties at sound-checks and to check the wiring when his apartments lights shut off. Akira had even used it to fix a staticky prison television at one point.
Rohan laughed a little at the mental image. The golden kappa of a stand had been reduced to nothing more than a handyman, significantly weaker than before after having been thrown in the ocean.
A true delinquent turned rockstar with a heart of gold. Yes, he would make an excellent manga character. Rohan read on intently.
I want to give Kishibe Rohan my favorite pick. Just like he said in that one author’s note, about how much he wants to be read — I realized I wanna be heard. Doesn’t matter who’s hearing me, or if I gotta shred on my guitar on the corner of a street. I gotta be out there and be heard. I gotta communicate my honest feelings. It’s the only way I can survive without breaking everything apart and destroying what’s around me. Sensei helped me realize that. Just like I look at my Pink Dark Boy autograph and think about how Kishibe-Sensei really made it, maybe someday Kishibe-sensei will be in a real low place, look at my guitar pick, and feel kinda happy inside, cuz somebody out there gets him. Kind of a selfish wish, but it makes me pretty happy to imagine.
“Thank you, Akira-kun,” Rohan said, genuinely. With the fountain pen he kept tucked in his trouser pocket, he swiftly jotted something down on a free space beside the paragraph before shutting the pages closed. He watched as the book fused firmly against the scar on his face. “—tonight wasn’t for nothing, after all.”
“Does that mean you liked the music?” Akira grinned at him, finally bringing his smoldering cigarette back to his lips.
“Maybe,” Rohan smirked back, always stingy with compliments. He was brimming with ideas. Maybe he’d write a prison story next. “Tell your security to let me take pictures next time. Then, we’ll talk.”
“Hell, I’ll get you VIP tickets to every show from here on out if it means I’ll get to watch you draw some more, sensei. That was awesome.” Akira flattered him, grinning, before giving an insistent little hop on the balls of his feet. “But seriously. Let’s go inside. I’m going to die. For real.”
Rohan pretended like his own ears weren’t frozen and red. “Yeah, yeah.”
The two went back inside and weaved through the crowd, Akira’s arm braced protectively over Rohan’s shoulders as though they’d known each other for years, his guitar bumping against his lower back. Rohan had read in his pamphlet that this was just how Akira was with people he considered friends; the problem was that he’d had almost no real friends over the years. The only alternative had been to scream and yell and break things until at least one pair of eyes were on him. Rohan momentarily felt the same feelings towards him as he would a wet puppy in a cardboard box; he allowed the affectionate gesture to continue.
Once again situated at the bar, Rohan yelled in his ear: “It’s getting late, Akira-kun.”
“Aw, man, leaving already? Night’s just getting started.” Even in the dim lights, Akira’s eyes looked dangerous, wolfish. A reformed man, but that spark of electricity still ran like a current beneath his veins. Rohan could see it from a mile away. “When will I see you again, Sensei?”
“Rohan,” the mangaka corrected him. He got the feeling they’d be seeing a lot more of each other soon. Stand users, once connected, didn’t stay apart for long. Leaning in to his ear, almost chest to chest with the musician, Rohan yelled, “I’ve written my number in your memories, should you find yourself back in Morioh anytime soon.”
Akira pulled away, fire in his eyes. “‘I’ve written my number in your memories’ sounds like a killer lyric.” He had the same tense inspiration that Rohan had had, sketching furiously earlier.
“Make sure to forward me the royalties,” Rohan teased, lazily saluting the man as he turned away. “Good evening, Akira-kun.”
“Be seeing you, Rohan.”
Yes, Rohan would try anything once. And this rock show had been more than fruitful, defying his expectations completely. He called a taxi, abandoning his poor motorbike in the parking garage he’d left it in. Maybe he’d pick up a CD or two on his way back to Morioh, tomorrow. His head swam with possibilities as the taxi carried him back to his hotel for the night. Rohan gripped the golden guitar pick tightly in his hand.
God. He couldn’t wait to get home and draw.