Take Your Time
Joining another band right after just quitting another one is an… experience.
Ryo did not think it would affect her that much, at first. After all, it was only her and Nijika in the band, and up until a week after her recruitment, band activities had been composed of self-practice and ‘band-like’ activities during lunch. Which meant Ryo stealing bits of whatever Nijika has put on her bento as she listens to her brainstorm ideas about band names and how to fill the remaining positions on their band and their future activities once they finally, officially, become a band.
Then— and Ryo does not know nor does she bother trying to pinpoint the exact moment it happens— the topics shift to some new musician Nijika found while browsing O-Tube, and Ryo finds herself watching Nijika’s hands more than listening to her. Her movements are animated, hands flitting this way and that, and more often than not, miming what she’s talking about. An intro sequence on drums. A chord switch-up on a guitar. Fingers sliding down the fretboard of a bass. Ryo hears it all, the music writing itself in her head. And when Nijika hands her the left half of her earphones, Ryo is not at all surprised when the melody she hears is not too dissimilar to the melody Nijika’s hands create.
It is mundane, normal. So much so that Ryo almost forgets that she had just quit her band and joined Nijika’s.
It hits, the week after, on their first band practice— Ryo offhandedly remarks if they could even be considered a band if they are just a duo, and Nijika thinks about it for a second or two before making an amendment and changing it to half-a-band practice. Ryo plugs her bass into the speakers, playing a few notes and tuning it to her preference, and Nijika rolls her shoulders and wrists as she scrolls through her phone for a song they are both familiar with and like, setting it down on an empty stool for them to play along to. Then they look at each other and nod, and Nijika counts them down.
Three.
Two.
One.
It goes horribly.
It is not necessarily a bad thing. Sure, they have heard each other play before— Nijika in the crowd cheering alone as Ryo bombs her first song, barely manages to finish the second, and absolutely kills, the mood that is, the third— but they have not played with each other before. Ryo tries to get in sync with Nijika and Nijika tries to do the same, and they both end up on the opposite ends of how they have been playing before. Then they try to do the opposite, and it ends up like two dogs chasing each other’s tails but never quite catching it. It is discordant and not at all pleasant and grinds at Ryo’s ears and—
A mistimed drum fill punctuates Nijika’s laughter and Ryo thinks this great offense they are committing by not doing this excellent song justice is fine, actually.
Ryo watches as Nijika misses a beat and abruptly stops, a giggle slipping out of her lips as she nods her head to the music until she finds an appropriate spot to jump back in. Her eyes are focused, but her shoulders are relaxed, and she breaks into a grin whenever they actually sync-up, no matter how small of a moment it is. Then she finds her gaze and directs her grin at her, and Ryo finds the frustration of not immediately clicking with her bandmate rolling off her shoulders. She relaxes and hears somewhere in their out-of-tune playing the sound of the bass stabilizing, and Nijika must have heard it too because she tilts her head in what Ryo has long learned to read as approval before focusing back on her own playing.
Their playing is still out of sync and horrible, but Ryo feels the beginning of a smile tug at the corners of her lips as her fingers slide down the frets and—
The worst first band practice in Ryo’s backyard, Kio’s roaring laughter from behind the drums, Aoi acting like it’s the end of the band just because their first band practice sucked. Aoi bombing a test and losing sleep over the lyrics of their first song. Ryo scribbling down music compositions in her history notebook instead of notes. Kio dragging them to practice when they are too insecure to hear what they have actually written. Arguing over prophos. Rejoicing at their songs gaining traction on the internet. Killing their first street performance.
Aoi squeezing her eyes shut and making herself as small as possible as Ryo crumples the lyric notebook on her hand and throws it across the room. She slings her guitar bag over her shoulder, the words scalding as they leave her lips and silence whatever other argument Kio has prepared.
“I quit.”
“Yamada Ryo!”
Ryo blinks, then flinches at the sudden assault of bright yellows and reds that fills her vision. The song is still playing, but the drums have stopped, and Nijika is in front of her, fingers tight on her shoulders as she pulls her down and blank yellows meet worried reds.
“You stopped playing.”
Oh.
“Sorry.” Ryo croaks, the second syllable caught in the sudden lump in her throat. And that would not do, because it is not normal and Nijika knows it is not normal. She’s searching her face— the furrow between her brows deepening— and Ryo does not like that. So she lets her head fall on Nijika’s shoulder and wills her body to relax. It does not listen. “I’m sleepy. I think.”
“You think?” Nijika breathes out, and Ryo cannot decide if she likes or hates the delicate tone she is using as the fingers on her shoulders loosen and disappear, and Ryo swallows the whine? Noise? Nothing. Ryo swallows nothing because Nijika’s arms wind up around her sides instead and Ryo has nothing to complain about that. “While I commend your ability to sleep standing up, I think it’ll be bad if you fall asleep mid-performance.”
“It won’t be.” Ryo breathes, taking in the faint scent of sweat mixed with the sweet scent of sunflowers— Nijika’s perfume. “They’ll think it’s a unique feature,” She feels the tight knots on her muscles slowly unravel and she lets herself slump against Nijika, feeling the way she shifts from one foot to another to accommodate her weight. The gesture almost makes her smile. “We could advertise and make money on that.”
“We’re running a band here, not a circus.”
“Half a band.”
“Half a band is still not a circus,” Nijika says in exasperation as she lightly knocks the back of her head, but Ryo clearly hears the amusement poorly hidden underneath. “Now c'mon, up up, you’re heavy you know, and we still need to go—”
And something in her words grip Ryo and makes her shoulders tense back up, like a sudden loud noise piercing through a quiet night and making people freeze, or a mistake in the middle of a performance that is so obvious it throws everything else off.
It’s fear, she realizes a beat later, when her fingers have curled tightly on the fabric of Nijika’s uniform and pulled her closer against her. It is the fear of history repeating itself, the fear of breaking up, of getting no closure because everything is still fresh and aching no matter how much Ryo wants to pretend that it did not affect her as much as it did.
“Five minutes,” I’ll be fine. I’ll be able to play just fine. I’ll be able to bury this. Just give me some time. Please. “Still sleepy.”
And she knows that Nijika knows—that Ryo is lying through her teeth, that there are things she left unsaid. But Ryo also knows how Nijika is— the way she would not push, not on things like this. And then the way that she would respond, not with words but with actions. A silent pat on the back. A tighter hug. A slight shift in position to be a better support.
Take your time.
And so Ryo does.