Chapter Text
Just like a horror film.
It started with his throat, most important thing in the world for a so dedicated vocalist like him.
He couldn’t believe it. His throat? His? After taking care of it for the last decade, even depriving himself from his favorite drinks and cigarettes. Sometimes not even going out with his friends just to avoid accidentally inhaling the smoke and tempting him to try it again. It was hard but he made it.
Damn, it hurts to swallow even.
He stares at the microphone stand right in front of him, like it was judging him for giving up on singing for first time in years during a rehearsal. He imagines that black thin metal pole yelling at him, just like his parents would if they were here.
Unconsciously. He brought up his thumb nail between his teeth, nipping it for some seconds, anxiously.
What a mess, a disaster, a disappointment, an idiot.
“Is everything ok, Mori-chan?”
But his head nodded even before he could command it, “Mmh, yeah,” he mumbles, “Let’s take some minutes.”
Everyone leaves their instruments aside in response and that only makes him feel even more angry at himself because, even when he’s not the official leader, he’s leading this team and yet he’s so ineffective to meet their expectations.
He feels worthless.
He tries again, to swallow, and it hurts him again.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn it.
Dome tour is happening this weekend, the heck is he doing until then? How is this type of things always happening to him? Of all people? The main vocalist?
“Ryo—“ His voice cracks, but he covers it. Not sure if the just turned-around bassist got to notice it, “Could you ask someone if they have any candy for a throat sore? I feel like needing it during the break, please.”
The brunette smiles widely, and it makes something flip in his stomach. Ryota winks as he says: “Don’t worry, Mori-chan. I’ll be right back.”
Leaving the room, he unconsciously swallows again, cursing mentally because he just discovered he can’t do that without feeling his throat burning and sighs. He puts the white microphone on the stand, which he just imagined as his most powerful enemy, then again his throat hurts, why he keeps swallowing? Is his need to calm the pain down?
He didn’t notice the drummer next to him until a hand places on his left shoulder, giving him a shiver down his spine. Was he expecting a rough hand and not his friend’s?
He looks up. His bangs covering some of the view as his eyes meet the redhead’s. “Are you sure you are okay, Takahiro?”
Of course Tomoya will notice, he always notice things.
“Yea—“ Coughs. Coughs. Dry ones and short but enough to worry about. “I will perform. This is just today.”
“You’re coughing.”
‘Thanks, Tomoya. I didn’t realize,’ That’s what he would have said if he is not coughing again at the drummer’s face. But these are dry coughs, not sick ones.
“I think this is because of the jet’s ac system. I probably slept with my mouth open, you know how this thing goes,” the blond looks away, thinking on another logical explanation, he is well aware he doesn’t sleep with an open mouth so this is just a guess.
“But when I went to the bathroom I saw you sleeping. And you seemed well.”
“Probably when you fell asleep too then.”
Still not convinced, the drummer gives a slow nod, but his gaze refuses to leave the singer. Taka coughs again, sharp, dry. And instinctively swallows to regain control, realizing too late how parched he is. Right on cue, a bottle of water is held in front of him.
“Thank you, Toru-san.”
In a perfect timing. Just as if the bottle caused him a cough attack, he opens it quickly and takes a generous amount of liquid, feeling the warm sensation caressing his sick body. He sighs again, then inhales before closing his eyes.
Some seconds later he turns to face the tall brunette and gives him a smile, in addition to his words, “This is just for today, let’s wrap it up after a last one.”
“What if we leave it right now?” The leader says, getting some dry coughs in response, “You don’t seem well enough to keep going. It will help you if you rest,” but the singer’s coughing increase. Worrying both the guitarist and drummer, Tomoya places a hand on the smallest man ready if he needs some help.
“Takahiro, you’re coughing too much, you weren’t this bad just a minute ago,” Tomoya looks at him with the most pitiful eyes ever, sicking the younger even more.
“I—“ coughs, “I don’t know! Maybe is this water you brought me, Toru-san.” His tone was even higher than he thought, sounding almost annoyed at everyone. Actually he’s just hating himself now.
“It is just normal water,” the brunette explains, taking the bottle from Taka’s hands, as he keeps coughing.
That’s when the doors open, a smiley bassist coming in, reaching the band with some honey-flavored cough drop tablets. The vocalist doesn’t take any second of doubting to try one, and the first swallow is just too good he does it again and again. Calming himself he gives some water to join the sensation, feeling relaxed almost immediately.
“Thank you, Ryo-chan,” He whispers.
But the show is still going.
Following his bandmates’ advices, Taka takes that day to rest on his hotel room. He is lying on his back in the middle of the bed, white mattresses embracing his almost depressing body, no energy left. Looking at the ceiling and thinking about how everything could possibly have started.
He meditates his last steps, it was definitely not the jet’s AC. He doesn’t remember but he is always wearing masks during trips and traveling so it’s not Japan’s natural air either.
During the last shows he was good, no coughing, no sore throat. Everything on the normal routine. He thinks.
It’s been about two hours since he left the rehearsal studio and went to his hotel room, which is pretty close, otherwise he couldn’t get to rest this well. Which means he hasn’t spoken in at least an hour and a half. He blinks. Yeah, he didn’t.
And also the coughing stopped completely. Wondering whether the cough drops —he ate almost five in a range of thirty minutes— are magical or it’s just that the resting is actually working, he tries to speak out loud.
“Hello…” He starts, easily, “My name is Moriuchi Takahiro.”
Well, that’s a short sentence.
He clears his throat again, with an easiness that scares him.
“Tomoya is a fool.”
No coughing again. Not even the pain.
“Wow… this candy works really well,” Surprised, he grabs his phone again, going directly to his guitarist’s line contact, “I’ll tell Toru I’m fine again. God, this is so good. Will I still need the medicine?”
As he writes down the message, he tries singing ‘wherever you are’, or only humming the melody, testing his skills.
A single cough slips out when Toru replies back, indicating the throat is not fully healed yet and he should not force it. Instead of answering the text the guitarist just sent, he called him.
He doesn’t have to wait thirty seconds to hear Toru’s voice.
“How are you?”
“Good,” He sits up, looking to the ground, “Just checked my voice and I’m perfectly fine!”
Taka hears a chuckle through the phone, and imagines the smile at the other side of the call, “I’m glad but you still have to rest, it doesn’t mean you healed completely already.”
“Yeah… I know.” Taka smiles, even though he knows his friend can’t see him, “Thank you for caring…” He bites his lips.
“Well, you’re my vocalist.” Toru says, warm tone, and the other has to swallow again, suppressing a gasp, “And my best friend.” But the cough can’t be hold.
“Sorry, I just—… I wasn’t coughing just now.”
What?
His throat tightens. Dry. Rough. And the saliva struggles to go down, the singer gasps again.
What is going on? I was perfectly fine!
His head spins, and now it also hurts, “Are you okay?” He hears from the phone, standing up to grab some water from the fridge, cursing mentally when he realizes he has only one left.
“Yea—“ Damn it! He coughs again, “I’m running” coughs, “out of” coughs, “water.”
What the hell?
“I’ll—“ He manages to say. “I’ll call you later..”
Silence filled the room.
He hates silence.
Tossing his phone away he tried to get up, his heart racing and his head started pounding. The question “What is going on?” spins around. He blinks trying to recall what happened. He doesn’t notice when he inhaled unconsciously until some dry coughing comes out, not hurting.
Walking barefoot to the balcony of his hotel room he almost took off the curtains, as if they’re to blame his misery. Sliding the wide glass door open and getting out to catch some air and peace.
Takahiro takes a deep breath, his heart beating fast.
“Why are you such an idiot?” He chuckles at himself. “You don’t even deserve to try anymore...” He knows how stupid is to speak alone. “…My head hurts.”
Two steps back and he’s touching the cold wall. It’s as if his brain tortures him to make it hurt even more and he has the need to hit his forehead instinctively to loosen the pain. That will not work, obviously. An even worse idea crossed his mind and without even trying to hold himself he’s walking inside to find a box of cheap cigarettes he bought days ago for ‘emergency use’.
The square box fits perfectly in his hands, the red decoration and a ‘Smoking Kills’ sign at the bottom are just what he needs right now.
He knows he shouldn’t, they have a live show this weekend for God’s sake but anxiety will kill him faster than this coughing of his.
The man takes another deep breath, filling his nose with the mud-like smell and then returns outside. Closing his eyes, he will regret this.
It’s been forever, months of rehearsal and he hasn’t taste a cigarette. When the tiny flame touched the tip he couldn’t step back.
The familiar bitter taste spreading on his tongue as he lets out his stress with the smoke. Oh, he missed this, how he did. And he couldn’t care less about his sore throat and if this is worsening the pain.
His stomach tightens and he wanted to throw up whatever he has left in his stomach, he hasn’t eaten much this weak. Could it be his defenses are getting weaker? Is that where this cough comes from? Could it be that?
The hot smoke paints all his vision while he waits patiently for another sound to emerge from his mouth. He takes another drag, nothing. Another, nothing again.
It’s not his throat. Good.
Looking down to the burning tip he decided to kill it against the wall, drawing some doodles with the ashes. He soon realized what he did and tries to clean the soft spot, it’s not its fault that he has relapsed.
Having the stick still between his fingers he wanted to light it up again and finish his route, he’s half way he should be able to finish a cig.
So he does, and it trembles to his plump lips, inhaling the toxin once again. It makes his brain go dizzy and for a moment he thanks it does.
I needed this.
His body jumps suddenly as soon as his door bell ring. God, who could it be now?
This time he does extinguish the flame with a sigh. Cursing lowly he did it too harshly he would no longer smoke that one and he’s just wasted a perfect cig.
Walking over the frame of the door he opens it just to find the familiar shape of a brunette he was talking with some minutes ago.
“Dude,” First thing he says. “Are you ok?”
“Toru-san,” Taka whispers, loud enough for both. “Go to sleep, leave me alone.”
Ignoring his words, Toru comes in with a worried expression. Taka takes a hand to cover his eyes, showing his tiredness and also his bad mood, in an attempt for the other to read the timing and do as he asks, to leave Taka alone.
“I’m worried about you.”
Here it comes.
His throat tightens again, he tries to hold it as much as possible but he ends up coughing again.
“I’m fine, I told you—“ Coughs. “Go to bed.”
“You keep coughing.”
“Go. To. Bed.” Coughs, dry coughs. “Go to bed, Toru.”
The door slams shut behind them and he has to walk into the room as the guitarist tries to corner him against a table. Hands supporting his body. The distance is respectful but it feels like Toru wants to invade his personal space.
Toru sniffs and Taka closes his mouth he let opened without noticing. Two dark eyes looking directly at him as Toru’s face frowns slowly into an annoyed look.
“Were you smoking?”
A flash of his own mother asking the same question during his teenage days appears at the back of his eyes and it’s too late to stop his hand to punch the guitarist in his chest.
“I did, so what?” The same tone he used when his parents caught him smoking for first time.
The brunette closes his eyes and Taka can only wait for him to yell or scream but that doesn’t come. Instead Toru takes a deep breath calming himself down.
“You can’t smoke,” His tone as confused as this situation. “We’re on tour, dude, what the hell? The live is happening like in two days, you know that, right?”
“I know, I’m not an idiot!” With his best friend’s calm demeanor, Taka can’t help but feel worse.
“Then why did you smoke? That’s why you’re coughing, right? You started smoking again.”
Taka frowns at that accusation and it only intensified his rage.
“I wasn’t smoking! I took ONE, Toru! One! Why you care so much, damn it!”
“Why do I care? Why do I care?” Emphasizing as he laughs bitterly. Just as the main reason of this argument. “My vocalist started coughing out of nowhere and now I catch him smoking.”
“I told you I wasn’t smoking!”
“Then don’t do it again, you’re trying to kill yourself or what?”
He never raised his voice towards Toru, not even once since they met. This past ten or eleven years he never had such an argument or a fight with him and this time won’t be their first. Specially not when the argument in question is caring for the other.
Takahiro pressed his lips in a tight line, didn’t relapsing help his nerves to calm? At the end, that cigarette was a waste.
So he relapsed again because of nothing, and he can’t even tell Toru why he feels this worthless, not when his eyes are looking into his soul like this. With that stupid ‘I care for you more than anything’ expression.
He got used to it, Toru as well as Tomoya and Ryota taking care of him whenever he felt down but he doesn’t need this now.
It’s almost like he just went twelve years in the past and is hearing his parents’ voices yelling at him because of a single cigarette he wanted to try so bad to shut his feelings away.
It wasn’t his fault, it was just curiosity and the fact that all his friends smoke back then, he was just fifteen.
Taka looks away from him, running a hand through his damp blond hair. Covered in sweat and regrets for now.
“I’m sorry… Don’t act like my dad,” Another cough escapes his lips, holding it back the best he can and to avoid the other’s gaze. “I won’t smoke again, I’ll take care of my voice until the tour is over.”
Those words meant it. He did.
But deeply he knew it was as easy to say it because that wasn’t the reason of the coughing. Not after checking it out and not feeling a single pain in his throat with that horrible flavor of a Marlboro.
The next two days went even calmer, of course the pain didn’t stop but he controlled it with acupuncture needles and more cough drop tables. At some point he felt sick of everyone worrying about his health and kept telling everyone how fine he was until the first day of Tokyo Dome Tour Live Show happened.
During soundcheck he did well, five hours straight of practice. Every time Toru or any of their staff told him to stop and rest his voice he would ignore it and kept going. Screaming his desperation.
Until he reached his limit.
Going back to his hotel room felt walking on thorns. Every step he took, the more his body screamed for help. Tomorrow will be the same.
Suddenly he’s in front of a big mirror mid-way to his bed. Looking awful. His dark roots he wanted to let grow and the yellowish color at the ends.
His headache is killing him now.
He needs a cigarette.
I promised him.
Taking both hands to his head and holding it harshly, punishing himself for such feelings of guilt and need. With his fingertips he squeezed his temle hard, replacing the inner pain with the outer one. A little moisture staying in his hands and cleaning them with the concert clothes.
With a quick movement he gets rid of his shirt and throws it to the floor, walking over the table. Remembering how his guitarist and best friend cornered him for Taka to promise he will be less of an idiot and give everything up for sake of this band.
Some coughing slips out his mouth again, taking the box with him again. He separates the wrapper from the cigs, leaving the content of less than 10 sticks in sight, showing that the last fifteen times he was nothing but a coward. Someone who doesn’t even stop his own judgements and care from succumbing to temptation.
Taking one between his dry lips and walks over to the same balcony when everything started two days ago. Two days ago and maybe six months before that. And also twenty years.
Twenty years of being this kind of idiot.
As soon as he gets outside he’s embraced by the cold air of a Tokyo night. The view is as beautiful. He struggles a bit to light up the toxic stick between his fingers and mouth, he turns around to cover the air. He tries once, twice and one last time until his fingertips burn of trying that much.
Until he can finally see the familiar smoke vanishing in the distance, the air doing its work to dispy the white curtains. Muscular memory make sure to suck all the nicotine way before he even think about what he was doing.
This time it hits different, maybe because he did it with a security that didn’t exist two days ago. Maybe because now’s when he’s being himself now. Maybe because the guilt is not yet punching his stomach.
He exhales, closing his eyes as he does so. Takahiro’s brain goes numb, dizzy and tired. Calm before the storm.
The cigarette is held against his mouth again, another drag.
And another, and another, and another.
Everything’s calm again.
His body is softer, his head is lighter. The only discomfort right now is his tongue with the acidity of the cigarette and his throat itching, threatening a wave of coughing once again.
The singer lies his body against the wall again, immersing himself in the feeling of simplicity. Going high. He never thought a single cigarette he was used to take every day during his teenage could make him feel like this.
Amazing.
Everything feels just perfect until his phone rings right over his left thigh. Quickly checking the name he sighs. Crashing the cigarette —that was already finished— Against the hotel’s architecture. He should’ve gotten an ashtray.
“Hey,” He greets, dry voice. Blame the nicotine.
“Hey,” Toru says back. “How was it today?”
Dumb Toru, always asking how he feels when he’s doing his worst.
“Good,” It wasn’t cold, not intentional at least. “My throat feels fine, for another one.”
He knows he can’t lie to him. Lying to Toru is straight up lying to himself, Toru is just too smart for him to keep a lie hanging in the air that much.
After some seconds of a comfortable silence, the brunette speaks again. Taka shifts his position against the wall. The cold air is making feel weak. “Tomorrow is the day, isn’t it? Recording day.”
“Yeah, recording,” The blond bring one of his thumbs to his teeth, biting again. After a second glance at the distance he frowns a bit. “I’m happy we will meet the guys. It’s been quite a while, right?”
“Uhm, yeah. Since last year.”
“I’ll hang out with Mah-kun and Masato-san. Tomo-kun and Ryo-kun told me they will hang out with Ken and other friends. Who are you going with?”
“I’ll join you, naturally. Masato-san and I have to keep up with some stuff.”
Both laugh softly. But Taka’s smile is quickly replaced by a sad expression when his throat threatens to ruin this moment.
“Then you’re driving.”
“I’m driving,” Taka was ready to tell him to hang up when the other speaks again. “Mori.”
“Tell me.”
“Do your best tomorrow,” And his eyebrows join. “You know I am here for you and…” Taka bites his bottom lip. “I will support you from behind. You know it.”
He swallows some trapped saliva. A whole second passes before he answers.
“I know.”
He can’t disappoint Toru.