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Exposure	By : libek Category: Digimon > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 8494 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Digimon: Digital Monsters, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
DISCLAIMER: See previous parts.

A/N: Introduced Yamato's 02 band, the Teen-Age Wolves, in this chapter. The names of the original band members, Akira and Takashi, are the same as in the series, but Mavi and Sekyou are completely original characters. (Anyone who knows Japanese at all should be aware that 'v' is not traditionally a letter available to them. Mavi is just what he calls himself, he writes it in English, and everyone pronounces it 'Mabui'.) Yutaka, the third canon band member, left for creative reasons. I'll probably go into it at some point, if you really care. If you're interested in hearing some of the Teen-Age Wolves' music, try their official single Tobira Door.

Exposure

Part Two: Strings

by Libek

"He's late," Mavi observed with no malice whatsoever. "Again." He had been staring into the fire silently for almost ten minutes, in the good chair that he'd taken when Akira got up for a drink of water.

  The keyboardist hadn't complained, being halfway into what the others affectionately referred to as his "songwriting trance". He merely relocated himself to the thick carpet, sheets of music paper strewn about carelessly.

  This was the youngest member of their group, by two months and eleven days, but he had been with the Wolves from the very beginning. He knew more about the mechanics of a song than the rest of them put together -- with the possible exception of their absent vocalist, who had several years of classical music lessons under his belt. Sekyou wasn't entirely sure on that score, but he was the only one who cared to keep score.

  Mavi, he knew, was only in it for the women and the prestige; Akira, only for the experience of creation. And Yamato, when he cared to show up, was certainly worried more about singing than about the rest of the band. But perhaps that was too harsh. For all of his frequent absences, Yamato did know he had an obligation to them, and, from what Sekyou had learned of the blond in the year or two since meeting him, this was not a person who casually shrugged off his obligations.

  No...there had to be a reason for it. What the reason was, he didn't know just yet, but a reason had to exist. That was why he looked over towards the fire and the big leather recliner and the Mavi who occupied it, and said, with as much tolerance as he could muster, "Shut up."

  Their drummer ruffled like a startled bird, short black hair falling into his eyes as he pulled his head back. A smooth gesture with one hand, and the uneasy part was restored, longer forelocks curling behind his ears. "Sure," he muttered, still looking unsettled. "Whatever."

  Sarcasm to save his pride, Sekyou thought privately, but didn't bother with a reply. Instead, he looked over at the open-faced wall clock, and waited. Yamato had ten minutes to walk in without needing an apology; after that, he ought to look a bit shamefaced, but only after another half-hour would he owe any sort of explanation. The blond seemed to prefer that middle, shamefaced-but-excuseless window -- just enough so that he nettled Mavi without making it look intentional.

  They were in Sekyou's one-bedroom apartment at the moment, typical of practice sessions. Since most of the people in his building were rowdy college kids themselves, they hardly ever got complaints about the noise. Occasionally, a girl or two would even recognize their style and want to listen in -- a downside, arguably, but the only one of them really bothered by the interruption was, unsurprisingly, Ishida Yamato himself. After all, his was the lap they wanted to sit in while he played, and it was his autograph that they were most interested in getting -- his clothing that got torn if they were overly enthusiastic.

  Sekyou didn't mind being left out of it; they were usually a bit young for his tastes, and Akira...well, he wouldn't have noticed if a nubile young woman had clung to him while he wrote. However, Mavi was clearly irritated by the favoritism, even more so as it became increasingly apparent that their vocalist didn't want the extra attention. Once, the raven-haired boy had turned to Sekyou and remarked derisively that only the most ungrateful bastards ever got anything in this life.

  That comment had struck Sekyou. True, he was a relatively new addition to Teen-Age Wolves; true, when he had joined them, offering a standard guitar to Yamato's bass and his own voice as backup, they were already a solid group and had been for more than a year. He wasn't as close to them as he would have been otherwise, but he wasn't blind, either, and the more that he thought about it, the more he realized that he had never seen Yamato return the affection of an admirer. No, not all of them were attractive, and some did have frighteningly strong obsession...but on the other hand, a few of these girls were very beautiful and some of them were older -- twenty-two or twenty-three.

  So, he had harbored a vague suspicion. First, he thought Yamato might be gay. That would explain why he sometimes looked as though he might actually be shuddering under a woman's touch, but it didn't solve the entire problem. Not all of their fans were of the gentler sex, and although he hadn't seemed quite as actively repulsed, the blond certainly hadn't opened his arms to them, either. Which still left a few possibilities.

  He might be frigid, in which case neither sex would appeal to him at all. A shame, that. He might be disturbed by the concept of empty affection; that is, the fact that all of these people who wanted to hold him were complete strangers and unlikely to still be interested after the mystique wore off. He might be very straight-laced, saving himself for marriage, and he might be terrified of contracting an STD. He might be involved with somebody already, or he might just be very dedicated to his work.

  And, of course, it could also be any combination of those things.

  By far, Sekyou thought, the most likely options were frigidity, homosexuality, and a relationship already in progress. The only way to tell for sure was to ask Yamato, but as he was hiding the last two if they were accurate and unlikely to have realized the first, that didn't seem like a plausible solution. Thusly, it was a time to watch, wait, and hope he slipped up.

  Rattle. Someone trying the door handle. Click, click. That same person using his key. By now, everyone in the living room had directed their attention to the door, so when Yamato entered, he entered to complete and total silence.

  This was the first time in his life Sekyou could ever recall thinking the term "sopping wet" appropriate. The blond young man currently dripping on his rug bore a strong resemblance to the flood victims he'd seen on the evening news. Except, of course, that none of them had managed to look either casual or presentable. Some people have that ability, and some don't. Yamato was evidently one of the haves, as he unbuttoned his cuffs, shrugged out of his coat, peeled off his shirt, and squeezed it out on the carpet while somehow managing to make this all look like the epitome of dignity and grace.

  It wasn't until the blond had smacked his still rather wet shirt against the door for the fourth time that Sekyou really acknowledged his presence, and by that time, he had replaced his shoes and socks with a comfortable pair of slippers and moved over to sit with them in his accustomed chair. Somehow, good manners now forbid the older teen from complaining about the water damage to his apartment or the fact that Yamato had hung his jacket to get everyone else's soaked through in the closet. Charisma, Sekyou thought tiredly when the boy flashed him a smile. The force by which a person may be inexcusably rude without earning any harsh remarks.

  Beside his chair, a red and white electric bass was still lying amiably on its side, amp plugged in, humming quietly to itself. The blond retrieved it, leaving his shirt unbuttoned so as to keep as much moisture away from his guitar as possible. A purple pick was taken out of his left pocket, and then it was as if Yamato had never been anywhere but in that chair, with them, practicing for the concert next week. He didn't even say hello.

  Mavi watched this process with unusual intensity. He had tweaked a few of the tuning bars, just ever so slightly. Certainly, he would never do anything to damage it -- no, of course not, guitars were expensive. But he wasn't above leaving a nonverbal hint of displeasure, almost like a parking ticket. Typical Mavi.

  However, Yamato did not begin to play. Instead, without even looking at the instrument in his hands, he curled the fingers of his left hand around the tuning bars and adjusted them all back into place. Unaware that Mavi was now gaping at him like a carp, the blond dusted his fingers down the strings and coaxed one perfectly pitched chord out of his bass guitar. He sniffed thoughtfully, and didn't look up while he spoke. "Mavi, please don't touch my guitar."

  It had to be admitted: even Sekyou was a little surprised by the accuracy of the deduction. The perpetrator, however, went three shades of white and started to gibber incoherently.

  "Oh, please," Yamato scoffed. "Who else would have done something like that? Besides, I can smell your cologne." Finally, blue eyes leveled with startled green across the room, and he cracked a smile. "So, what have you been working on while I was gone?"

  Intoning something sarcastic but questioning under his breath, Mavi looked away. Though it had been barely audible, you didn't have to be a genius to know what he'd asked, and Sekyou, who could tell by Yamato's expression that he hadn't understood, made to change the subject before they were steered into a heated debate. He gestured offhandedly to their keyboardist. "Why don't you ask Akira?"

  Momentarily, he worried that the blond would make something of this mild suggestion, but at the last second, Yamato seemed to think better of it. "Mm, I suppose I should," he said, setting his now correctly tuned guitar off to one side and kneeling down on the floor beside the boy in question. "Akira-kun?"

  Akira's head shot up, almost lost in a mass of shifting dark purple curls. More frizz than ringlet, and they were always obscuring his eyes. Unlike Mavi, he did nothing to correct this. "Yes?"

  "What have you been working on?" Yamato asked him kindly.

  "Oh!" The sixteen-year-old blinked his wide-set, rounded eyes. "Nothing much, just yet; I only have the melody, but I sort of like it...some of the notes are kind of high in the chorus, though. Do you think you can reach all of them?" Said eyes, russet colored, darted nervously towards the paper and back up again. Time and again, Akira seemed worried as he turned over the fruits of his labor. As though they were ever anything but perfect.

  After looking over the notes for a few beats, Yamato cleared his throat thoughtfully, and started singing. No words, of course, as there were none written; he just followed the melody through. It may not have been the finished vocal line, but he would undoubtedly have to wrap his voice around most of it, so if there were any complications, they needed to know early on. However, as he got to the high parts that Akira had been worried about, Yamato went briefly shrill and then almost languorously soprano. Five notes of varying lengths, one rest, then down again, through the same shrill patch, and back into his normal range.

  Mavi had put his hands up tentatively to his ears, and they were stuck there as he stared at Yamato incredulously. Even Akira seemed taken aback, and he, at least, had known what sort of pitch to expect. The three of them stared, and -- not for the first time -- Sekyou understood why Yamato took care of the primary vocals. He could never have done that.

  Not completely oblivious, Yamato did notice the way they were looking at him. It didn't help his case any that, when he tried to speak, his voice was up there again for a split second. He coughed productively, spat onto the carpet, and tried again. "What are you all staring at?"

  "That...I don't ever want to hear that again," Mavi said with sudden conviction. "You sound like a chick, man."

  "Well, excuse me for taking voice lessons," the blond snapped, suddenly sounding defensive. He rubbed his throat as though it hurt a little. It probably did. "Officially, I can go from medium soprano to a high bass. But I haven't used that part of my voice in years. I think if I work at it a few days, I can make that splinter go away."

  "Splinter?" Sekyou blinked.

  "Yeah, you know, the break in my voice between alto and soprano. It's from lack of exercise. Haven't gone up there for anything but the trills since I was fifteen." Once more, he coughed. "Like I said, though, I think I can make it go away."

  "Are you sure you're really a guy?" Mavi's question was a little pointed, but he meant it as a joke. Most likely.

  Yamato rolled his eyes and spat again. "Yes, thank you."

  Annoyed now, Sekyou frowned. "Does proving your masculinity have to involve spitting on my rug?"

  "Sorry," the blond said with all sincerity, ruined by flashing the victory sign in Mavi's direction. "So, Akira-kun, when do you think you'll have that song worked out?"

  Many times, Akira blinked. He seemed to have gone right back to work after the shock wore off, scribbling furiously at the paper and erasing with just as much gusto. "Oh, I don't know. Tomorrow, if the inspiration holds up. Otherwise, maybe never." And then he tuned them all out.

  Not the least bit discouraged, for they were all used to Akira by now, Yamato took a piece of music paper for himself and looked around for a writing utensil, humming the tune thoughtfully under his breath. Taking this as a hint, Sekyou retrieved a blue ballpoint from a jar of pens and pencils that he kept to one side of the couch. Yamato accepted it and got down to business. Though not dead to the world, he wouldn't be much for conversation while he worked, so Sekyou lifted his own instrument gingerly and went over the fingering on one of their older hits. Yes, Teen-Age Wolves needed new material for each concert, but fans also liked to hear their favorite numbers, so some of these had to be ready as well. And, if the audience didn't like one of the new songs, the band had better be able to back it up with something popular.

  Always, Sekyou had been under the vague impression that, once they hit the big-time, each individual concert would require less stress and nerve-wracking preparation. As it turned out, things were just the opposite; when you're a small no-name band and you mess up seriously, you haven't lost anything. Ten to one, the people listening to you play were all too stoned to tell you apart from the other three bands on stage that night. When you're popular, people come to hear you, and they're certainly going to remember if you do something stupid. Not only are they going to remember, they're going to tell all of their friends at school about it, and, in the worst-case scenario, a local newspaper or television station will get wind of the fiasco. The next thing you know, you're a walking joke and the pressure to make the next concert go off without a hitch is unbelievable.

  Teen-Age Wolves had been on both sides of that fence.

  Sekyou let out a long sigh. It was calm and almost quiet in the apartment; Yamato's voice, still humming the nameless song under his breath, and, of course, the faint scratching of pen on paper, but otherwise -- very peaceful. All four of them, even Mavi, were mostly or completely relaxed.

  Wait...four? Where was Taka --

  And that was when the smoke alarm went off. Sekyou jerked upright, almost knocking the guitar out of his lap. If he hadn't had the strap around his neck, the poor baby might have ended up on the floor. Carefully setting her aside, he assessed the other's reactions: Yamato's was similar to his own, and the sheet of music paper now sported a large, blue-rimmed hole; Mavi had leapt to his feet, jerking the headphone jack out of his portable boombox and filling the room with acid rock; Akira hadn't so much as blinked, mired deep in the third phase of his trance, whereupon if they wanted him to eat something, they would have to chew it first and then force it down his throat.

  Of course, what with the sound of things in the kitchen, they wouldn't be eating any time soon. To join the alarm's incessant beeping and the slurred, guttural music, a long string of very colorful exclamations floated out to greet them. At last, dusted in soot, Takashi emerged with a cloud of dull, off-white smoke and a self-conscious little cough.

  Under three sets of incredulous eyes, the redhead brought a hand up to the back of his head. "Hi, Yama-kun," he began, as casually as he could. "I thought I'd whip something up for the rest of us while you were out."

  "Whipped is right," Mavi said in a very audible whisper. "I'm surprised we haven't heard any shrieks of pain."

  "Shut up," Takashi shot back. "Nobody asked you."

  Yamato ran a hand through his bangs, and for one long moment, fought to control his facial expression. Then he looked up at Takashi and smiled brightly. "What were you trying to make?"

  "Um..." the slightly singed boy massaged his shoulder idly with one hand, "...I dunno. Sekyou had a lot of pasta laying around, so I thought I'd make some sort of casserole or something but...I think I left it on for too long, 'cause the water boiled away and then the cheese caught on fire and I was going to throw water on it but then I realized this was an electrical fire and that that would make it worse or something, so then I thought to smother it, but the dishtowel caught on fire, too, and...I'm rambling, aren't I?"

  His first clue, Sekyou thought with a smirk, had probably been the way Yamato's eyes just kept getting larger and wider with every word he spoke. In fact, by the time Takashi had finally trailed off, their vocalist looked as though his eyes were going to pop right out of his head. Yamato blinked; once, twice, and then slipped on that famous indifferent mask of his.

  Slowly climbing to his feet, the blond met the redhead halfway and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You just sit down and I'll take care of it, okay? I didn't really get to eat earlier anyway." Before there could be any argument, he had disappeared into the still-smoking kitchen. Mavi reached over and yanked out the boombox's plug. A few seconds later, the alarm was also shut off -- at least, Sekyou assumed so. The way his ears were ringing, he couldn't be sure.

  "He didn't get to eat?!" Mavi demanded in an explosive half-whisper as soon as the topic of discussion was well and truly busied. "What the hell does he mean, he didn't get to eat? Isn't that what he said he was leaving for? Wasn't he gone for more than two hours? Didn't he miss more than two hours of our practice just to eat?!"

  "Calm down," Takashi began gently. "It's his life, after all; he doesn't have to tell us where he is every second of every day."

  Serious, moss green eyes regarded the other boy with an uneasy hybrid of disbelief and irritation. "Every second of every day? Hell no, I don't want those kind of details. But for the last six months or so, he's been doing this to us. Ducking out of practice with little or no explanation. And now -- now he's lying. Maybe has been from the beginning. I don't like that, Takashi. We're his goddamned friends. Whatever's going on with him, he should be able to tell us."

  Takashi still wanted to disagree, obviously, but he didn't seem to know how. Mavi's persistent use of the word us was disarming, and his points were all valid. He clearly felt this as a lack of trust. Though he wasn't showing it in the best way, he was hurt, and that, too, was valid. How could you argue against any of that?

  So Sekyou didn't argue. He only reached out to Mavi and touched the boy's arm. "Takashi is right about this much, Mavi: calm down. If you want to ask him where he's been, then you can ask, but don't do it while you're frothing at the mouth, all right? Explain to him that we're all worried about him disappearing on us; explain that you want him to open up like a friend should; but don't demand a bunch of answers, and don't yell. It won't do you any good."

  Mavi looked annoyed. He shook off Sekyou's hand like he would have the arm of a drunk, and turned back to the fire, staring into it intently. "Too long," the raven-haired boy murmured. "Too damn long."

  It was a little more than a half an hour before Yamato reappeared, balancing two trays on his upturned palms like a waitress. It looked like canned soup, which surprised Sekyou a little; Yamato was one of those people who went around preaching the evils of ready-made food. The blond went through the motions of serving everyone else before he sat down -- Akira ignored it, of course, but he still had his soup. When Yamato finally took a bowl for himself, he stated into it sullenly instead of eating. Well, maybe he hadn't changed his mind, after all.

  "What's the matter?" Sekyou asked, and when Takashi cringed, he knew he wasn't going to like the answer.

  "Your stove," the blond replied tonelessly. "Takashi's fire. It took me so long to clean up the damn mess that I realized we hardly had any time left to practice --"

  "Before what?" Mavi cut in, as this was news to them.

  Maddeningly, Yamato didn't bother to respond, just picked up right where he'd left off as though the interruption hadn't occurred. "Then when I checked to see what else you had 'lying around', it wasn't much. Instant ramen. Leftover something-or-other in a moldy Tupperware container. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of throwing out the crap, washing the container, and fumigating your 'fridge."

  "No, not at all," Sekyou assured him. He probably meant the lo mein, but it also could have been the cucumber sushi or maybe that chicken Okaasan had brought over last week leftover from their dinner. Although decently tidy in most respects, Sekyou would readily admit that his kitchen was a frightening place to be. This was why he mostly ordered in, and that led to the same cycle all over again...

  "You also might want to do the dishes at some point," their primary vocalist added with distaste. "I swear I saw something alive in that pile..."

  Takashi laughed. "Did it try and bite you, too?"

  "You saw the same one?" Yamato pretended surprise. "Little and purple with spots?"

  "Nah." Takashi shook his head. "Mine was green. Had oozing pustules all over it."

  "Hmm. Can't say I mind having missed it."

  "Okay, very funny." Usually, Sekyou didn't mind jokes at his expense, so long as they were funny. But just at the moment, he had glanced over in Mavi's direction, wondering why the other boy wasn't joining in his roast. The answer was pretty obvious once he had. Hands clenching with repressed energy, face twitching slightly, the green-eyed teenager looked as though he would go off on anyone at the slightest provocation. Maybe even without provocation. The sooner this was over, the better. "So, Yamato-kun, if you don't mind my asking, didn't you say you were going home for dinner?"

  "I was," the blond replied, and promptly dug into his soup.

  Sekyou couldn't help smiling sadly. You walked right into that one. This is almost too easy. "Well, we're all wondering how you can say you haven't eaten when you were gone for two hours."

  Yamato froze, and froze completely. The hand, which had been reaching for his discarded pen, stopped halfway, and the spoon, which had been lifting to his mouth, did the same. One drip, then two and four and six as his hand began to tremble faintly. For a time, no one spoke -- probably no one breathed -- all just staring at their blond vocalist while he tried a little too hard to get himself under control.

  Too much panic, Sekyou observed. Yamato didn't seem to have thought this out at all.

  Looking into his eyes, for once completely unguarded, it was almost possible to pick the thoughts right out of his head. Nothing. I've got nothing. And now it's been too long. They know. They all know there's something wrong. Say something, dammit! Say something NOW!

  So, Yamato did. He cleared his throat a little, like he had before attempting to sing. "I did go home to make dinner," he started, and hurried on before Mavi could complain, "but not for me. For...someone else."

  Unsaid: a significant someone else, Sekyou decided. There was too much in his tone of voice on the words. He could have been talking about anyone important to him, even his brother, but for god's sake, if he had meant his little brother Takeru, then he would have said his little brother Takeru. No, and not a friend, either -- a lover. Well, that was presumptuous, but someone that intimate. A girlfriend or a boyfriend. Probably a boyfriend. Look at his face. Too much fear.

  In truth, that fear annoyed him. Jeez, Yama-kun, give us a little credit. They were his friends, after all. Not as good as those...uhm...they'd been on the news for a while...Chosen Children. That was it. Yeah, not as close friends as those guys, but still. Somewhere, in the meaning of the word friend, there was loyalty. A kind of love, even. How could he ever doubt them?

  And yet, even while Sekyou was having these thoughts, he found himself taking a quick inventory of the faces in the room at that moment. He'd never heard any of them speak one way or the other about homosexuals. It wasn't a thing that came up in casual conversation. He knew that they all cared about Yamato in one way or another, but...fear was a strange, irrational thing. If one of them or all of them were homophobic, then nothing else would matter. No, he told himself; they're all decent human beings and they aren't going to act like that.

  But, at least now, he understood some of the trepidation Yamato was feeling. No longer insulted, Sekyou watched the rest of the band nervously. Apprehensively. Because it wasn't just Yamato's neck on the line here. If these people turned out to be that sort of scum, he wouldn't be able to stand being around them. And these were some of his best friends.

  Yamato was still hesitating. He had no intention of telling the truth, it seemed; instead, he was trying to figure out which lie would be the most effective. Mavi saw the same thing, and suddenly clenched his jaw with a sharp, enamel-on-enamel clap. He ground them once back and forth, then snapped.

  "No. Don't you even think about it!"

  The blond's head shot up, and he met the other's flashing green eyes. "What? I was just about to --"

  "Lie," Mavi hissed, and he was across the floor before you could blink, towering over Yamato for barely a second before grabbing his shirt and yanking him to his feet. "I'm sick of it, you hear me? Fucking sick!"

  "I don't know what --" the blond tried, and again was cut off.

  "Like hell you don't!" He reared his hand back, and he looked like he throw a punch.

  As quick as he had moved before, Sekyou knew he had to move faster now. Prevent this "discussion" from turning into a brawl. So he caught Mavi's wrist and looked him in the eye. "Stop it, Mavi. Just stop it."

  "Tell that to him!" Mavi protested, and behind his anger, he really was worried. Not about Sekyou's displeasure, no -- about whatever it was that Yamato wouldn't tell them.

  He hadn't realized, Sekyou knew then. He didn't see what it had to be, so he probably thought their vocalist was on drugs or something. He was only trying to be a friend. But he wasn't going about this the right way at all. Yamato, already frightened of them, had almost broken down. He was trembling again. And the others? Watching, nervous shadows. This, even Akira could not tune out -- not as though he wanted to. He might have been distant, but he did care. They all did.

  "Mavi," Yamato managed at last, "I'm really sorry. But I haven't been --"

  "Don't finish that sentence," Mavi murmured. Not an angry, biting retort, like his previous remarks, but barely whispered and almost . . . tearful? Disbelieving, Sekyou turned to check, and found the younger boy wiping at his face with the back of one sleeve. "Please, just don't finish that sentence. Tell me, Yamato-san, what's going on with you. Or I walk."

  The blond winced at the suffix, and then looked stunned. Like a deer in the headlights. "I...I don't..." he started haltingly, but stopped.

  Took a deep breath.

  "I was cooking for my boyfriend, Mavi. I'm gay."

To be continued...
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Exposure