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Akito didn't like to talk.
His voice irritated him to no end. Constantly cracking at the highest pitches, stuttering and catching on words, occasionally even going silent when he needed it the most. It was unreliable and annoying--it'd be better if no one heard it.
Once, singing had been his passion. Everyday, from the sunny afternoons where he sprinted to Vivid Street after another boring day of school until it was nearly midnight and he'd exhausted himself with his fruitless training, he sang even when his throat hurt.
After all, he'd seen the light after giving up on the thing he loved the most, and it had felt like God was giving him another chance. Every time he stood on that street and sung, it was the best sensation he'd ever felt. His passion and pride kept him going even on his worst days, reminding him of that day and what he was living for. So he continued to sing, even when everyone laughed at him and mocked for even daring to think of surpassing that legend. He ignored all of them, determinedly envisioning that beautiful future where he proved them all wrong and his name would be painted all of the street just as theirs had--Akito Shinonome, the singer who surpassed RAD WEEKEND. Such a future was idyllic enough to keep him alive, so he leaned into with a desperation that matched his passion.
However, his pride had been his defeat. He'd stupidly accepted a challenge to perform at the holiest of places--CRAWL GREEN, where RADder had debuted. And of course his voice had failed him, cracking and slipping no matter how hard he tried to control. The silence at the venue was deafening to his ears.
He'd been walking home, trying his best to keep from sobbing too loudly, when he'd heard a voice calling out to him. He'd barely registered the face of his hero, an expression of concern gracing it, before he'd sprinted away as fast as possible.
He'd kept going after that, but he began performing in smaller, less known locations around the street. Occasionally he would see a person pointing at him, clearly hiding a laugh behind their hand, but he refused to back down. Sure, he'd smeared mud all over such a special place--an unforgivable crime even to him--but it was just the next wall he had to cross. Everything would soon be forgiven, and even if that day never came, it was nice to have a dream.
Then one night his voice cracked during a single street performance. He couldn't stop coughing after that, dropping his mic and clutching at his throat as if he could physically rip whatever was choking him away. A few people had raced to his side, clearly alarmed and anxious to help, but he'd shoved through the small crowd and ran back home without looking back.
Time passed strangely after that. He didn't leave his room for days on end, ignoring most of the food his mother brought him and burying himself under the covers when she tried to talk to him. His school uniform lay crumpled and ignored on the floor even though summer break had ended weeks ago, and his favorite jacket--the one he reserved only for the best performances--had been flung under his desk the night he'd come home, sobbing so hard he almost couldn't breathe.
After around two weeks of wallowing in self pity, his mother successfully coaxed him down the stairs to the table, where a plate of pancakes sat waiting for him. He ate every one of them under her watchful gaze, staying completely silent the entire time, and when that was done she gently persuaded him to take a shower. Once he was clean he realized he felt almost better, almost like he'd washed off the rest of his failure. Maybe things weren't as bad as they had looked the night he'd come home.
The next day, his mother woke him up early and got him dressed for school, telling him she'd told the teacher he'd been sick for a while but was returning. She wished him good luck and sent him off with a smile, and although he was dreading the day he nodded and tried for a smile as he closed the front door behind him.
He kept quiet as much as possible, although he wasn't sure of the reason why. It felt like something was blocking his throat, even though he could breathe perfectly fine. He shrugged it off and headed for his next class, trying to shove himself back into his normal schedule.
Everything was fine. He just had to stay quiet, and things would be fine.
Until the teacher asked him for the answer to a question that looked easy to solve.
Although he felt wary (what if he was wrong?) Akito took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He opened his mouth with the full intention of answering to the best of his ability and was shocked when nothing came out.
Murmurs filled the air the longer he went without saying anything. The students traded confused expressions. Why couldn't he say anything?
The teacher blinked, looking slightly surprised. "Mr. Shinonome? Is everything alright?"
Akito's breath quickened as he attempted to force even a single word out--or even something simple, like I don't feel well, but his voice remained silent. His legs were shaking so badly it was a miracle he was still standing, and he could feel tears beginning to prick at his eyes as the teacher stepped towards him, gently taking his arm. She said something about the nurse's office, but he could barely hear her over the sound of his heart thudding loudly in his ears. What was wrong with him? Where had his voice gone?
Barely a few minutes passed before his mother was holding his hand, whispering something reassuring as she led him outside. She practically dragged him along the road back home as he stumbled after her like some kind of zombie, mind still reeling. The rest of the night was a blur--he was given a mug of warm tea he could barely drink without choking, shoved into the bath and then bundled off into bed where he lay awake for hours, replaying that moment in his head over and over again. The next day she dragged him outside again, this time to the hospital where he blanked out as the doctors attempted to perform tests to figure out whatever the hell was wrong with him. Before he knew he was home again, and his mother was once again trying to get him to drink a mug of tea. He somehow swallowed it down, forcing himself to listen as she explained the results they'd gotten back.
"They said that it looks like you overworked your throat and lost your voice," she said as she poured herself a mug and sat down opposite him at the table. "It should come back provided you go without speaking for a little while. They also prescribed a bunch of tea and other things like soup to help, since it'll be harder for you to swallow certain foods.."
She leaned over and fixed his hair, smiling sadly. "I'm sorry I didn't pay enough attention. Try not to sing for a little bit, either, okay?"
Akito nodded, although his head was so heavy it was almost impossible. He almost couldn't believe it. My voice is gone.
All because I didn't want to give up.
I lost it because I couldn't accept defeat.
...So it was all useless in the end.
His mother rose to her feet and embraced him, wiping away the tears trickling down his face with her thumb. They felt different from the night he'd come home--he'd sobbed hard enough to stain his pillow, feeling as though his despair would choke him--but now they were few and far between. He felt differently, too--none of the intense sorrow and shame he'd felt that night was present. He couldn't feel anything other than a dull ache in his chest.
He did as he was told and kept from speaking, doing his best to keep himself motivated. After all, he didn't have to give up just yet--soon his voice would return and he could sing again. He'd get started on his dream again like nothing had happened.
This was just another wall he had to climb.
He couldn't back down no matter what.
Soon enough the hospital told him he was fine to speak. It felt odd doing so again, almost as if he had to re-learn how to speak certain words. His mother--and occasionally his sister, when she wasn't drawing or working with her group--often sat down and talked to him, keeping the conversation easy enough that he could keep up. Akito began to believe that he'd crossed through the worst of his hurdles so far at last.
Until he tried to sing.
It was just a practice run in his room, nothing more. He put on his headphones and sat at his desk, preparing himself as the intro played. He sang a few lines and immediately turned it off, fighting to keep from crying again. He sounded terrible--weeks of not practicing hadn't done any wonders for him, and his voice was wobbly and off-key. He was in no way ready to sing again.
I might never be.
Even if by some miracle I practiced enough to come back--
He could vividly remember sprinting home, ignoring the yells from the other singers who'd watched him fail at CRAWL GREEN and once again seen his voice fail him. The jeers had been getting almost too intense for him to ignore, too--he knew he didn't belong there. Why had he fought so long to try and earn his place?
I don't belong there.
I was such an idiot.
Why did I believe I could do actually something like that?
The next time his mother came to check on him, it was to find him frantically shoving everything that reminded him of music and Vivid Street into a trash bag. Once she calmed him down she agreed to take the bag away, although he had a feeling she wasn't actually throwing it out. It didn't matter what happened to it, though--as long as it was out of his sight it was fine. He didn't want to think about singing anymore.
I'm not cut out for this.
They never gave up. They became legends.
But I'm not like them.
The truth settled on him, cold and hard. He was never going to be like the singers he looked up to, the team that had created a legend. He would never touch the heights they'd reached.
It was a pointless dream in the end.
...I wish I could just disappear.
All alone in his room, which looked grayer and emptier with all of his memories of music gone, he buried his face in his knees and cried himself to sleep.
The clock showed 12:57 AM.
He kept his gaze trained on his screen, stubbornly dragging the track he was editing back and forth across his workspace until he was satisfied. Finally, it sounded right.
After a week of him lying around doing nothing, his sister had suggested he make music. He'd been resistant to the idea at first, but she eased him into it when she reminded him he didn't have to sing. His mother supported him, even reluctantly agreeing to let him move to a small apartment nearby when living at his house with three other people who constantly talked began to drive him mad. He felt bad for pushing them away, but as he felt as though he could barely even speak staying there was unbearable. He was allowed to live separately from them on the condition that his mother come by every week to check on him and help him clean.
Although it was hard, he brought the guitar his mother had bought him and his laptop to his new room and began to make music. It was months before he could release something he was proud of, but it was easier than trying to sing in public again. Just the thought nearly gave him a panic attack, so he buried himself in composing instead in hopes of forgetting he'd ever done something so bold.
At first he'd had no goal, but gradually he decided to keep music in hopes of reaching someone. He wanted to share his pain with someone who'd felt the same things, and maybe help them feel better about their own shitty life. Even on days where he wanted nothing more than to let his frustration take him and die, he stubbornly kept composing. Eventually--once he caved and bought the Virtual Singer voice bank everyone was so obsessed with and began adding lyrics--his songs reached three other people, and even though he'd been wary at first, he created a circle to ensure his music spread further through the web. He refused to talk over the mic, though, drawing a lot of questions considering they did so freely, but finally they stopped asking him and they continued working.
Oh, it's time now.
Akito opened Nightcord and clicked on the group call to start the meeting, wincing as Naginin greeted him with a loud "Hey!" Kohammie was quick to shush her, giggling slightly. "Keep it down a bit, Naginin."
"But I've been waiting all day for this!" Naginin whined. "Come on, Aki, show just a little excitement!"
Scowling, Akito typed "shut up" into the chat. Her laughter hurt his ears, but he rolled his eyes and tried to ignore her.
"It's nice to see everyone so excited," Willow remarked with a faint chuckle. "Since we're all here, shall we get this meeting started?"
Akito couldn't help but smile slightly as he reached for his keyboard again. Maybe things weren't so bad anymore.
Aki: Alright, let's get going then.