Chapter 2: The Drummer's Taunt
The dirt stayed on his cheek for two days. It became a joke in the locker room—"Forgot how to use a washcloth, Yagami?"—but washing it off felt like surrendering something. He’d finally scrubbed it away that morning, his skin raw under his fingers.
Now he was deliberately lost again, chasing not music, but the source of it.
The practice rooms were in the west wing, all soft light and quiet. This was the east wing, a concrete bunker beneath the auditorium. The air smelled of dust, stale coffee, and ozone. A thudding, chaotic beat pulsed through a heavy door marked Studio B. It wasn't the clean pain of a piano. This was something alive and messy.
Taichi pushed the door open, and the sound hit him like a wall.
The room was a cave of noise. Egg-crate foam swallowed the walls. A grand piano, sleek and black, dominated the center, but it was silent. The noise came from a drum kit assaulted by a guy with wild red hair, his sticks a blur, and from Yamato, who was standing, cradling a bass guitar.
Yamato wasn't gentle here. He was all sharp angles and coiled focus, his body bent over the deep, curving wood of the instrument. His right hand moved against the strings, not plucking but striking, pulling a thick, throbbing line of sound from the amp that vibrated in Taichi's teeth. It was a rhythmic, sensual pulse, completely different from the piano's complexity, but it held the same absolute authority.
The drummer—Kaito—spotted him first. His grin was wide and immediate, a flash of white in the chaotic rhythm. He didn't stop playing, just jerked his chin in a come in gesture, his eyes dancing with amusement.
Taichi stepped inside, letting the door sigh shut behind him, sealing him in the sonic world. He leaned against a road case, arms crossed, trying to look casual. Unaffected.
He failed completely.
He couldn't look away from Yamato. The way his left hand slid along the neck of the bass, fingers pressing, shifting. The subtle roll of his hips keeping time with the groove. A sheen of sweat gleamed at his temple, tracing the line of his sharp jaw. He was so deep in the music he seemed untouchable, a planet in its own orbit.
The song wound down, Kaito crashing through a final fill that dissolved into the ringing of cymbals. In the sudden, ringing quiet, the air itself felt bruised.
"Hey, audience!" Kaito boomed, spinning a stick in his fingers. He was all loud energy, a complete contrast to Yamato's stillness. "You're the soccer kid. The one blocking light fixtures."
Yamato’s head turned slowly. Those winter-blue eyes found Taichi, traveled from his sneakers up to his face. There was no surprise in them. Only a faint, cool acknowledgment, as if he’d known Taichi would come searching. As if he’d been waiting.
"Taichi," Yamato said. His voice was barely audible over the amp’s fading hum.
"He was just watching you, Yama," Kaito singsonged, hopping off his stool and grabbing a water bottle. "Like a puppy watching a steak. You gonna share?"
"He's not a stray," Yamato said, his gaze still locked on Taichi. He unplugged the bass with a soft pop, the sound dying abruptly. "He's persistent."
"Same difference." Kaito took a long swig, eyeing Taichi over the bottle. "So, you a music fan, or just a Yamato fan?"
Taichi felt a hot blush creep up his neck. "I was just walking by."
"Right," Kaito laughed. "This is the scenic route to the gym. Very popular." He walked over and clapped Taichi on the shoulder, a friendly, overwhelming weight. "Relax, man. He's got you hooked. It's okay. Happens to the best of us."
Yamato carefully set his bass on a stand. He pulled a cloth from his back pocket and began wiping down the piano keys, his movements methodical. "Kaito. Give us the room."
Not a question. An instruction.
Kaito’s eyebrows shot up. He looked between them, his grin turning knowing. "Oho. Rehearsal's over, I guess. Don't break the new toy, Yama." He grabbed his jacket, winked at a flustered Taichi, and was gone, the door closing with a solid thunk.
The silence he left behind was profound. It was the kind of silence that pressed on your eardrums.
Yamato finished with the keys. He draped the cloth over the edge of the piano and finally, fully, turned to face Taichi. He didn't speak. He just looked, his head slightly tilted, as if listening to a frequency only he could hear.
Taichi’s mouth was dry. The cocky line he'd prepared—just checking out the competition—withered and died. He was just a guy in a room, being dissected by a stare.
"Why are you here, Taichi?" Yamato asked. His voice was quiet, but it filled the space.
"You know why."
"Say it."
Taichi swallowed. "The music."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Yamato's lips. It wasn't kind. "Liar." He took a step forward. Then another. He moved like water, smooth and inevitable. "You came for the silence after it. The one I control."
He was close now. Taichi could smell the clean scent of his soap, faintly salty sweat, the oil from the bass strings. He had to look up to meet his eyes. That simple fact sent a jolt through him.
Yamato reached out, not touching Taichi’s face, but pointing to a spot on his own cheek. "You kept my mark. Until today."
Taichi’s breath hitched. He’d noticed.
"Follow me," Yamato said, and walked past him toward a small, windowed booth in the corner—a vocal isolation room. Taichi followed, his legs moving on autopilot.
Inside the booth, it was even quieter. Soundproofed, airless. The only light came from the main room, throwing squares of pale illumination across the floor. Yamato closed the door, sealing them in.
Before Taichi could process it, Yamato had him. A hand on his chest, firm and unyielding, spinning him and pressing him back against the cool glass of the booth wall. Taichi’s shoulder blades hit the window with a soft bump. The grip wasn't brutal, but it was absolute. It pinned him.
Yamato leaned in, his body a long, lean line against Taichi’s. His other hand came up, not to strike, but to cradle Taichi’s jaw, his thumb brushing over the now-clean skin of his cheekbone.
"You came looking for me," Yamato murmured, his breath warm against Taichi's lips. His eyes were dark in the low light, pupils swallowing the blue. "You stood in my room, breathing my air, listening to my world. You couldn't stay away."
Taichi tried to summon defiance, but all that came out was a shaky exhale. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, syncopated and wild, nothing like the perfect rhythm Yamato commanded.
"Good boy."
The words, soft and low, unraveled something deep in Taichi’s gut. A shockwave of heat and shameful, dizzying pleasure rolled through him, weakening his knees. He sagged slightly against the glass, held up only by Yamato’s hand on his chest and the weight of that praise.
Yamato’s thumb stroked his cheek once more, a possessive gesture. "You want a lesson in control? This is the first one. You don't decide when the game starts. I do."
He leaned in closer, until his lips were almost touching Taichi's ear. "The next time you come find me," he whispered, the words a vibration against Taichi's skin, "you will ask."