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It has been said that the drums and the bass are a married couple. Umiri supposed that this was meant to be a humorous statement (albeit it had never made her laugh, not really) that simultaneously reflected the very real nature of their cooperation to define the rhythm underlying each song. They were certainly more interlinked than most other instruments used in bands.
However, Umiri didn’t think the word “married” was quite right. Or rather, in her experience, it didn’t capture the full depth of the relationship between the bass and the drums. Because it wasn’t really a partnership; the drums were always in control. They control the tempo, they shift the intensity, they issue commands. Drummers who lacked confidence never lasted, in Umiri’s experience. It was an instrument whose mastery required a clear vision of what was desired.
The bass is the faithful servant and messenger of the drums; it bridges the gap between rhythm and melody, following the lead of the drums without exception and without hesitation, the bassist always with a constant worshipful eye on the drummer, desperate to know what they want the bass to do next. Umiri supposed that some might compare this way of thinking to a dog taking commands from its owner, but she did not think that was right either, because Umiri rather liked this relationship between the drums and the bass, and she did not consider herself to be a dog, although she was not offended by the idea in the slightest, either. It was simply that if Umiri had her way, she would not “be” anything at all. If she had to put it into more specific words, she regretted that her human limitations held her back even slightly in meeting the needs of those around her. If only she could be some sort of bass-playing machine, she thought, some special kind that could also perfectly fulfill the emotional and physical needs of everyone, then perhaps all would be right with the world.
As long as that machine could be considered herself, then nothing else mattered.
There was no such machine, though, only the finitely capable her that existed now. Whenever Umiri thought about this, she wondered if what she felt was what other people called “heartache”.
Once, when Taki-san had been telling her about one Takamatsu-san in all her excitement, she mentioned that Takamatsu-san had once mentioned something about “wanting to become human”. From an objective standpoint, Umiri could see why this resonated with Taki-san. Taki-san didn’t let most people get close enough to see the vulnerabilities she hid under her thorns, but Umiri liked to think that she was one of those people, at the very least just barely close enough to have some understanding of the real her. The real Taki-san was actually pretty insecure. No, it would be more accurate to say that she loathed being alive. There was something eating away at her, and when Umiri realized she had no idea how to fix it, she felt that same awful thing that she felt when thinking about her human limits and needs.
When Taki-san talked about Takamatsu-san, though, her face lit up in a way that it never had before the entire time that Umiri had known her. She recognized what this look on Taki-san’s face was, had seen it enough times directed at her, never by Taki-san (the word never hurt a little even to think) but by other girls with other names; Shiina Taki was most certainly a girl in love. It wasn’t Umiri’s place to say as much, though, did not think that right at this moment Taki-san needed her to say as much, and so she left it be and listened passively as Taki-san talked about the brilliance of this girl who had made her feel that it was okay for her to be alive. It was this wonderful feeling that Takamatsu-san gave Taki-san, too, that filled her with the confidence needed to soar higher as a drummer.
And if there was a pain in Umiri’s heart, a new and slightly different pain, as she thought about this special way Taki-san changed when it came to the special subject of this special girl she had special feelings for, well, she didn’t really know what to name this pain which wasn’t the same kind of heartache but greatly resembled it.
A thought flashed through her mind; recently, perhaps in class or perhaps from one of her bands (they all more or less blended together) Umiri had learned of the legend of Kiyohime, though she had struggled to understand why that titular serpent-girl had been so enraged. After all, Umiri had been no stranger to false promises, but it had been her own fault that the others hadn’t shown up that day, really. They must have thought her unreliable and didn’t want to risk being seen performing with her, so obviously she should improve herself rather than be angry with them.
When considering this vague immaterial pain she felt, when she saw Taki-san’s gaze go off into the far distance, Umiri now wondered if Kiyohime had felt something similar that fateful day that Anchin had left her.
If she had, then, well, perhaps Umiri could understand, just the tiniest bit.
That feeling wouldn’t be able to seize her as it had Kiyohime in the legend, however. Umiri would be better, more under control, willing to obey. Taki-san still talked to her in class, still needed her, and that was good enough for Umiri. As long as the drummer needed the bassist, then that was proof that the bassist had earned the right to exist. Taki-san might not be making music with her, but they still had their own sort of rhythm when they were together outside of their band practices, and Umiri supposed that was all right. It was what Taki-san wanted, and it wasn’t the bassist’s place to try and change the drummer’s mind.
Umiri did have to admit to herself, however, that she couldn’t understand why this Takamatsu-san wished to “become a human” so badly. From her experience, when people expressed this kind of sentiment, they rarely meant it literally, and Taki-san had never seemed to have patience for outright nonsense like that, so Umiri surmised Takamatsu-san meant it in another sense, perhaps social acceptance or spiritual fulfillment. If that were the case, then Umiri understood on an intellectual level but couldn’t relate. Of all the things that she didn’t want to be, she wanted to be “human” the least. The human Umiri was unreliable and needy and disgusting and without purpose. Better that she should cut away the excess and reduce herself to a bass, in all its stringed beauty, and be a tool that serves the needs of others, or that she should otherwise become nothing at all.
Despite this difference in outlook, it wasn’t like Umiri held anything against Takamatsu-san. She could recognize from how Taki-san talked about her lyrics, the way they had filled the drummer with a clarity and purpose that Umiri had never seen before, that the vocalist possessed a dream that any normal person could see was beautiful. It just happened that this beauty was not and could not be for her. There was no right or wrong in this, only whatever ideal they as individuals felt it was best for them to pursue.
Sometimes, though, Umiri did wonder what it might be like if she did fit into Takamatsu-san’s dream of becoming human. If her human-like excess was in a different, better shape, one that didn’t need to be shed in order to deserve to exist alongside others.
If maybe there was a version of the human Umiri that it was worthwhile to become.
With this in mind, she had attended CRYCHIC’s first (and, as it would later turn out, only) live, to lay eyes upon Takamatsu-san herself. Umiri thought that it was a little funny, that a bassist should seek to look at a vocalist instead of a drummer, but maybe Takamatsu-san was just that kind of person, who drew people’s interest even without any intention or even effort on her part. Unfortunately, whatever it was that had lit such a fire in Taki-san, Umiri didn’t feel the same way. Takamatsu-san was a good enough singer, but she had seen and played alongside others who were even better, and just as she had expected, she struggled to relate to the lyrics. When she looked over at the drums, though, Taki-san was staring at Takamatsu-san throughout the live, her gaze almost feverish. If anything, she was more entranced with Takamatsu-san here in person, and especially with her singing, than she had been merely talking about her to Umiri. A strange feeling stirred in Umiri, the same one she had felt when Taki-san had begun to talk about Takamatsu-san, now more intense.
Recently, Umiri had begun to read about human emotions, and she had the beginnings of a guess at what this one was named. Jealousy. At once an ugly and beautiful word. The worst part of it was that she wasn’t even sure who she was jealous of: Takamatsu-san, for drawing Taki-san’s attention, or Taki-san, for having gained through Takamatsu-san this new sense of purpose that had made her so much more trustworthy. Maybe it was both, she couldn’t say.
Umiri watched Taki-san’s drumsticks as she played, and time seemed to slow to a crawl.
Un, deux, trois, quatre. The rhythm carried on.
Before the live had concluded, Umiri was already turning to leave, compelled by a force within her that she didn’t quite understand. She hadn’t thought Takamatsu-san was particularly special, that much was true. Even so, the tiniest seed of doubt had been planted in her heart. Her earlier thoughts, which had brought her here in the first place, returned to her.
What if?