The Art of Falling Apart

Author's Notes- I'm not sure what's happening with this at the moment. Obviously, there's no point flooding the front page with another ten updates if there isn't much interest, but since the real story only begins to start in the third and fourth chapters, I squashed them together and uploaded it to give this fic another chance.
Disclaimer- I don't own the characters or concepts. This is non-profit and no copyright infringement is intended.
Warning- Drugs, drinking, swearing, slash and het, mention-of-naughty-occurrences-with-questionable-consent, etc.

Their debut single was recorded on the very first day.

"We're taking it straight to TV. It's good enough to stand alone without a director spending a week putting a video together," Takeo had said, as soon as they had spent the first day in the studio. It had gone unnaturally well. There were no artistic disagreements or equipment failures, no one losing their voices or stumbling over a tricky piece of music. They had recorded three entire songs without a single hitch.

Tohma and Noriko's compositions blended well. His were technically perfect, while hers had a quirky, catchy edge that gave the band a distinctive sound. He'd shown up with an entire album already written and dated from two years before, gave his enigmatic little smile and said nothing when they asked why he hadn't done anything with them before. It left Noriko wondering how many notebooks he had idly filled with beautiful music and packed it away where it would never be heard.

It was also apparent that Ryuichi wouldn't just be a pretty front for the band. While he had no formal training and lacked technical knowledge, he had the voice and he understood music intimately. He couldn't explain it, or talk about cadence or timbre or pitch, but he knew what made it work. There was no need to have their lyrics written for them either, not once he'd shown the notebooks he had filled with songs. There were pages filled with his dreamy, multicoloured handwriting penning lyrics in alternating magenta and lime ink. Drawings punctuated the songs, linking them together with candycane striped ladders, glittering spider's webs and trails of shooting stars. There was very little paper left blank. Rainbow titles stretched across purple inked skies, surrounded by tiny galaxies and fantastic flying animals. The lyrics weren't perfect and would need some rewriting to fit the mainstream, but there was something there at the core, an odd poignant line here and there hitting home amongst the soft flow of words. Perhaps it was the lack of perfection that made them work. There was something off about almost every line, but then some of the greatest geniuses in every art field had something slightly skewed about them, about the way they caught the world they saw and trapped a glimpse of it in words or paint or a single sobbing violin solo. Noriko wouldn't have believed some of those lyrics came from Ryuichi if she hadn't seen him scribbling away working on some of them. There was an odd intensity in his eyes then, the same that appeared when he was on stage.

The date of their first television performance came up frighteningly fast as a week passed in a blur of recording sessions and their first photoshoot. Noriko remembered little of those days, everything moving too fast and all they could do was try to keep up as they were shunted from location to location. The photos from that time seemed unfamiliar and remote, as though she had never been there at all. They were the first images of Nittle Grasper released, and they showed the trio in front of a plain white backdrop. There was Ryuichi with his confident stage smirk and his top sliding off one sharp shoulder, a dark-eyed, glossy-lipped Noriko looking impossibly slinky in a designer dress, Tohma with the razor bone structure and cool distant gaze of a runway model. They were too beautiful and perfect, and she couldn't connect them with the memories she must have from those times, of Tohma sipping a latte around his lipgloss, Ryuichi blinking dazedly as cameras flashed and snapped, herself getting tired and temperamental under the blazingly hot studio lights. The time was gone, and before she could pause to enjoy it, they were sat backstage at one of Japan's most popular TV shows.

"You have terrible dark circles under your eyes," A makeup artist said absently, studying Noriko's face. "Do you sleep enough?"

"I can't," Noriko said, her voice suddenly very small. The artist shrugged and left the room to collect her equipment. She was used to hiding a multitude of sins- drug use and alcohol and late nights. She could spray a healthy tan over their pallor, paint away dark circles, smooth over acne or even create shadows and hollows to disguise a bloated musician's weight gain.

"What's wrong?" Ryuichi asked, squirming around in his seat to face Noriko.

"I couldn't sleep," Noriko said. "I feel sick," She hugged her knees. "You have no idea how much this means to me," Her face was terribly pale.

"You don't know what it's like," She continued. "Ryuichi, I'm getting old already. I can't put life off much longer. I'll have to do something soon," And she knew what that something would be without a rich family to put her through university and no other talents to fall back on. She'd been trying to make it as a musician for three years and time was running short. She'd dye her hair back to its natural black, buy a more demure wardrobe, get a temporary office job and still think she'd make it in her spare time. Except there would be no way out after that, and that temporary job would continue year after year while her looks faded and she lost hope. She was a smart girl but she didn't have the brains to make it to the top where few women ever succeeded anyway, and she had no money to go to university and train in another discipline. Noriko would end up another office flower, another nameless young woman serving tea and photocopying and typing up papers and smiling prettily all the time. There was no future and no promotions, and by thirty she would have married one of the businessmen there and quietly retired to raise children, and the music would have ended forever.

The single was being released the next day. There were copies of it at every shop and radio station in the country, delivered today and ready to be released tomorrow. Over the previous few days, their faces had subtly began appearing in posters and advertisements in music and lifestyle magazines, urging an uninterested population to be ready for Nittle Grasper's debut single. Takeo had pulled a lot of strings to get an unknown band on a TV show followed by so many teenagers and twenty-somethings, especially since it would also be their first public performance. The recording sessions and rehearsals had all gone flawlessly, but sometimes that wasn't the same thing at all. The single's performance depended on it, and there would be no second chances in this business.

Ryuichi loved Noriko, in his own way. If it wasn't for her, he wouldn't be here now. He didn't want her to go back to whatever had frightened her so much. Looking at her pinched features, he made a resolution then. Whatever it took, he would do anything for Noriko.

"Ready?" Tohma didn't look troubled at all. They had been practising enough, and both he and Noriko had performed live before, if on a much smaller scale. They had rehearsed on that same stage earlier without any trouble. He read a newspaper calmly while makeup artists and hairdressers fussed around the three of them.

Into position, and a studio audience used to having beautiful, talented bands thrown at them every week watched back blandly as they moved into their chalked-out positions. The host was still finishing up on the other stage, talking to last week's number one, a beautiful, frighteningly thin girl with a waif-like face surrounded by waves of curly blonde hair extensions. Then he was standing and saying something inaudible, but the lights flashed red indicating it was time to smile and strike a pose as the cameras switched over to Nittle Grasper. Polite applause greeted the announcement, some pre-recorded and the rest cued by neon signs.

For a single moment, Ryuichi faltered. The stage was surrounded by the dim shapes and blinking lights from cameras ready to record every mistake, an audience that couldn't be charmed or won over. Kumagorou was whispering something frightening that sounded like the voices of all the anonymous looking men and women who were watching, ready to see Nittle Grasper soar or fall. Then the music cut in, and everything was perfect again.

They left the stage to applause that was neither canned nor cued, the sort that could carry Ryuichi on forever. There was a constant murmuring and chattering, congratulations coming from numerous glossy strangers who all seemed to know his name, and Takeo whisking them onward past the crowds. Then it was into the empty dressing room, and Ryuichi was shaking his head while Takeo's voice flowed over him, senseless. Eventually, they seemed to accept that he needed a moment to rest, and Tohma and Noriko went back out to meet and greet the other guests on the show while Ryuichi curled up in a chair, a little dazed, but content.

"That wasn't bad. With the size of the audience the show gets, I wouldn't be surprised if you made the top thirty," The producer was there, closing the door behind him. He was an average looking man in his forties with the same designer suit and benevolent, kind-old-uncle smile as the others, but Ryuichi didn't need to be introduced to know this one was important. "Maybe even higher. You have a lot of charisma," He paused, crossing the empty room. The dim lights flashed on his glasses and made his expression unreadable. But his voice had a pseudo-thoughtful, friendly tone as he continued, tapping one thick finger against his cheek as he considered. "But so do thousands of others who never make it. You just need to meet the right people,"

He came in closer, and the murmur and chatter from outside the room seemed very far away now. Ryuichi looked sideways into the mirror and met his reflection's eyes, his nails biting into the chair arms as he watched. Someone was touching his reflection's shoulder, leaning in to whisper to that other Ryuichi, and he wanted to call out a warning, but the words choked and died somewhere in his throat.

"I can help you,"

Ryuichi closed his eyes, thought of Noriko and then simply went away.

The news came by two days later, in the evening.

"You're being quiet," Noriko said, poking Ryuichi playfully. The performance had restored her mood considerably. After the show, they had been taken to the sort of exclusive bar she'd never even known existed. Takeo hadn't kept them there long, but she'd spotted more than one famous musician while they were there, and noticed the glances that they were beginning to draw. She had seen Nittle Grasper reflected in one of the glass walls as they sat in a booth, and been shocked by just how well they fitted in. She thought that something would give her away, that they'd recognise her as a fraud and see through the new image to the girl she had been, just an average teenage girl with a bad dye job, hammering out mediocre rock music on a cheap keyboard. But the mirror had shown a glossy, stylish trio that looked completely at home amongst the crowd there.

Ryuichi managed a weak smile, summoning up just enough sunshine to keep the world together. "Tired, na no da,". It was a plausible enough excuse. Takeo kept them busy. The morning after the TV performance, there was an interview for a magazine, carefully orchestrated. The questions were obtained beforehand, answers prepared and Tohma and Noriko ready to cut in whenever it looked like Ryuichi might slip up. Then it was back into the recording studio to finish the album, working throughout the whole day to tidy up and record a few more filler songs. They hadn't even heard their single on the radio yet, or had time to watch any music channels. By the time they got home, the shows had been replaced by late night dance videos. As soon as they had any free time, Noriko wanted to go buy a copy of their single. There was an entire box of them at the apartment, but it wouldn't seem real until she saw it in a shop, no matter how many times she ripped off the plastic covering from one of the new singles, brushed her fingers over their impossibly perfect photos and dropped an unplayed copy into the CD player. She'd asked Takeo if he had any idea if it was selling, and he'd given her a look that she couldn't read. Too soon to tell, perhaps, but he must hear something. There would be feedback and DJs commenting on it and magazines asking him for an interview or for more information about this new band. As the second day passed, Noriko began to worry.

The phone rang. Noriko answered it. Ryuichi watched the colour drain from her face. She only spoke a few words, murmuring something he couldn't hear before hanging up abruptly. She missed, and plastic clattered as she dropped the receiver onto the table rather than its base.

"Noriko-" He went to her. "It'll be okay-"

She walked past him like a zombie, shaking off the hand on her arm as though she hadn't noticed it. He ran after her, a little frightened by the dazed look in her eyes.

"What was it?" Ryuichi followed her as she went towards the television. She picked up the remote, dropped it twice and finally managed to turn it on, flipping to a music channel she sometimes watched. But the only thing it showed on a Saturday evening was the charts, nothing to do with showcasing new, unknown bands.

"Down two places from last week, Nova are still hanging in there at number 8. Rising from-"

Noriko sank into a seat and watched. Ryuichi perched on the arm next to her as they went through the charts, showing clips of videos or live performances.

"And with what looks set to be the fastest selling debut in Japanese history, charting after just two days on sale, it's straight to number one for newcomers Nittle Grasper-"

The screen filled with edited footage of their first TV performance.

The next day, there wasn't a recording session. There was another quick photoshoot, some preparation for a major magazine interview that would take place on the following day, and then rehearsals before a club performance Takeo had managed to arrange for that very night.

Somehow they had ended up at a hotel afterwards, and Ryuichi wasn't sure how anything had happened. The performance had gone well. There was something completely different, something far more exhilarating, about playing for an audience who knew the song. It was an oddly psychosexual experience, stalking in and out of the shadows on stage, bathed in pulsing red lights and the deep primal throbbing of heavy bass as the music blended with the audience's screams and applause. Despite the barriers and the guards between clubbers and stage, there was intimacy in the act, in holding an audience of hundreds in the palm of one hand as for fifteen minutes, their entire world shrank to the performance that Ryuichi could give them.

Then there had been drinks and meeting more people, and Takeo always there by his side careful to watch everything, and somehow they had ended up here. Now Ryuichi rested his head against cool frosty glass and stared at the neon lights pulsing outside the hotel, watching the diluted candy colours washing over the rainslicked concrete of a parking lot. Someone was throwing up violently down there, a bowed platinum blonde head going through the entire spectrum of the rainbow as the lights blinked on and off and stained them red and blue and green. He stood, stumbled and watched fascinated as his outstretched hand slowly reached across space and time to steady himself against a wall that seemed a mile away.

Noriko was sprawled on the floor giggling, her short skirt flipped up to expose the full length of her bare legs. Two men were sat besides her, one drawing abstract circles on the hollow of her flat stomach, the other pouring a sparkling stream of glittering alcohol into her near empty glass. She looked up, moving painfully slow as though underwater. Her eyes were senseless and vacant, but her heart-shaped face split in an enormous grin as she saw him. Her lips were moving, babbling something inaudible, but Ryuichi couldn't hear what she wanted to say and didn't want to hear it either. He stepped backwards away from Noriko until he walked into a wall and stayed there, listening to the steady oceanic rush of blood in his temples, the only constant thing in the world.

Someone gave him a drink, something velvety thick that coated the glass as he swirled it, fascinated. It looked as heavy as thick cream, the deep vital red of arterial blood. It tasted like rotten cherries, overpoweringly sweet for a second before the alcohol hit and its bitter undercurrent cut through the sugar and spice. He lowered the glass, and saw the enigmatic Sphinx smile of the woman who had brought it and waited there now, all tousled hair and sultry knowing eyes. She brushed his cheek for a moment, candyapple red nails whispering predatory against his face, then leaned forward and murmured something into his ear. He couldn't hear the words, but there was no need to when the words meant nothing and the tone said everything. For a second he breathed in the deep jungle scent of heated skin and perfume and was almost tempted to stay there, in the dark safe world trapped between the wall and the soft weight of her chest pressing against his own. He knew there was a kind of comfort to be found there, in the arms of someone who would adore you for a night, and sometimes that would be long enough.

He stumbled out, stepping over and around people. Two of them writhed in time, undulating in slow, languid movements against the thick comforting plush of hotel carpet. He wanted to lie down there too, and turn his face away from the noise and flashing lights, and breath in the quiet calm air filled with carpet cleaner and dust from thousands of shoes. Hands unfolded like blossoming flowers from the shadows, brushing against him, breathless giggling voices calling his name. Kumagorou's voice was among them, and he panicked. He couldn't let things slip, not now.

Into the bathroom. The sterile white light burned and fizzed as it popped into life, and he blinked painfully, fireworks exploding against his eyelids. The club had been smoky and left his eyes dry and sore, but it was his voice he worried about. He couldn't lose that now, now that things were just beginning to stiron a magnitude he could barely imagine. He slid down the wall to the floor and rested his head against the cool tiles, letting the noise drift away.

"You OK?"

Ryuichi glanced up slowly. He didn't recognise the other person who crouched there in front of him. Whoever it was, he wasn't handsome enough to be a model or a musician, and he wasn't wearing the expensive suits that marked the producers, mangers and other important businessmen.

"I guess not. Here, you look like you need this. On the house, since it's your party and all,"

The pills looked as small and harmless as candy. There were three there, all a neutral shade of white and stamped with some generic mark like any other medication. The sight was almost comfortingly familiar. He was used to seeing Noriko or sometimes Tohma holding other pills that didn't look so different, impatiently waiting for him to take them.

He swallowed the pill, and everything was shiny again.