Chapter Text
June 3rd, 1975
Brooklyn, New York
Days on Tour: 1
****
So this is America, he thought. Spangled and bright.
From his view on the strip of a shabby New York City sidewalk, where cigarette butts were crushed beneath heels and glass bottles were drunkenly shattered, two red doors lay stark in his vision. A quiet thump from inside their crimson venue reflected the boy’s timid heartbeat, and the neon sign above reflected in his dark eyes.
His camera bag shook beneath his tightened grip as he exited the yellow cab, not bothering to bow a well-mannered thank you. Because the neon sign - depicting the name of the roughed up building - was indecipherable to his foreign tongue, and added to his budding anxiety. The older man proceeded to interpret for him.
“‘Wild Side,’” Ibe called from over his broad shoulder. With a gesturing hand - the one that only just waved off the driver - he focused their attention towards a pinned list besides the door. “That’s the lineup for tonight. Here, see, Eiji?”
Eiji followed with timid steps, weaving through a four-person crowd that only just exited the smoky building. He wrinkled his nose at the unfamiliar smell that surrounded them before settling besides his companion.
“That’s the band we’re interviewing.” Ibe elaborated with a point. It was the fourth group down, and Eiji had to squint in order to read against the low lighting.
“Ah,” Those words were much more manageable. “That’s a strange name for a band.” He decided.
“Ask them about it,” Ibe checked his watch. “That’s what we’re here for.”
Eiji shrugged away the idea and looked around him. The group he had only just passed was wobbling away, clicking down the road in their glittery heels and leather loafers. Double daters, he thought. They must have been there for the earlier three shows.
“When can we go in?” Eiji asked, turning back around. He was curious as to what events transpired inside to make the girls’ mascara run and the boys to smile goofy - but perhaps that was just how all Americans looked. New York natives especially.
“Whenever Charlie gets here with our passes.” Ibe answered. He followed Eiji’s previous line of sight and watched the fumbling group attempt to hail a taxi. “Say, Eiji,”
“Mm?”
“Stay close to me, alright?”
Eiji nodded, though he wasn’t sure how content he was about following instructions. For while he didn’t willingly listen to rock music, he did unwillingly listen to Ibe. More often than he should.
They waited against the dark wall for a few minutes more, watching as another crowd filed in for the upcoming show. Eiji’s interest was now slightly peaked - this band seemed to be popular with a very rambunctious and youthful crowd. Were they all New York natives as well? With their loose beads and heavy boots and smeared makeup of stardust?
Americans must listen to Ziggy, too.
“Mr. Shunichi?”
Both heads turned towards a gallant looking man - whose orange hair shone bright against the neon sign - as he made his way down the grubby sidewalk. Ibe extended his hand with a confirmitve nod and a professional greeting. That must be the publisher, Eiji assumed.
He gripped his camera bag once more at the man’s expectant glance.
“Eiji Okumura, nice to meet you.” He introduced, cringing slightly at how easily his accent had managed to bleed through those well-rehearsed words.
“Charlie Dickenson,” The man introduced right back. “You must be the camera guy?”
Eiji nodded, a little sheepish at the informality. Guy.
“Perfect, alright.” Charlie pulled out two lanyards from his trouser pocket. Attached were two plastic IDs that caught the colorful light as they were passed around. “These just let you in to the backroom. Flash them to the bartender, too, and everything will be on the house. He’s nineteen, right?”
“Oh, we won’t be drinking.” Ibe assured. He looped the lanyard across his chest and Eiji followed suit.
Charlie shot them both a sceptic brow before shrugging his way to the door. “You listen to rock, Mr. Shunichi?” He breezed.
Ibe twinged slightly. “No, not really.”
Charlie smirked with a pull of the red wooden door. “Well, then you’re gonna want to drink.”
****
Only when the door clicked shut, trapping him inside the venue’s quiet greenroom, was Eiji finally able to breathe again.
The quick, weaving journey from the crowded entrance to the lightly packed backstage had been an excursion to say the least. The thumping Eiji heard earlier had been nulled due to the stage’s lack of players, and the crowd now mingled aimlessly with cups of amber liquid in their hands. There were men with long hair, women with shaved heads, and people who defined neither or both, all laughing and chatting in their wait for the upcoming band. That foul smell that Eiji recognized around the double daters now clung to the air like the city’s smog. Inescapable.
But he was starting to grow used to it.
As for the bar that Charlie alluded to - which was pressed against the far right corner opposite the stage - drinkers bustled around its semi-circle counters. An obviously young boy had even tried to bum a drink off him.
“Hey, can you buy me something?” He asked. His face had been intense, consequently freezing Eiji in his place. He blinked back down as the boy continued. “I’ll pay extra.”
“Sing, leave him alone!” A voice barked from the crowd. “Crack open a pop or leave.”
Ibe called from up ahead.
Eiji shot the boy a sympathetic expression before scampering off behind his companion. His head pulsed from all the excitement and smoke, and he couldn’t help the small smile appear on his quirking lips.
He was growing used to it.
So now here they were, unpacking all the mundane things they needed for the interview with settling breath. Ibe even made a joke about being too old for all of this, to which Eiji addressed with an amused smile.
He, however, felt too young. Naive.
“So,” Charlie started, flickering his gaze back to his own respective wrist-watch. “The band’s running a bit late, but that’s expected. Rockin’ kids, you know?”
“But don’t let that intimidate you.” He continued. “You’ve interviewed young bands before, right?”
“Yes,” Ibe assured. He was helping Eiji assemble the small camera - the one with the brown trim and quiet shutter. “This will be my fourth one for the article, but first for my assistant.”
“I see, well,” Charlie gave the naive boy a warm glance. “They don’t like adults, but I have a feeling they might like you.”
Eiji nodded once again, despite only catching about half of that sentence. His mind felt a little too dizzy to properly translate, and so he slid the strap around his neck to compose himself. Ground him.
They might like you.
“Get about one or two of the band in here, but save most of the film for the performance. Okay?” Ibe instructed in quiet Japanese. “There’s about twenty in the cartridge, so don’t feel bad about messing up.”
“Yes, sir.” Eiji answered. Like a well-trained dog, he bitterly thought.
Dizzy mind indeed.
While they waited, Eiji took the time to address this strange ‘greenroom’. He knew that it was just a phrase - a figure of speech for a language he didn’t quite understand - but the paint peeling walls that were graffitted and stained were every color but green. On one side of this stickered wall, a light brown couch was pushed up flush, dented from the lounging of all the previous bands. A corduroy armchair was snug up beside it as well, also obviously used.
Ibe had unfurled a fold-up chair across both of them.
Eiji had only just begun to decipher the mysterious stains on the shag rug by the time a startling click whipped his attention back up. The door was violently ripped open, and with it the sounds of jubilant laughter followed suit.
“Can I bum a light before this shit starts?”
Eiji never knew that smiles could be that free.
“Not my fuckin’ fault you lost yours.”
That hair could be that color.
“Piss off.”
He pressed himself against the obscene wall and dropped his startled gaze.
That eyes could be that green.
“Hello, boys.” Charlie started - slightly empathetic for Ibe’s future benefit. Five voices proceeded to greet him, all of which were either forcibly peppy or downright disinterested. Eiji struggled to pick out the individualism, for it all just blended into an angsty melody of youth.
The door clicked shut, locking the group’s clatter into the four quiet corners. Rustling and gentle bangs rang out for a moment as the band dropped their designated instrument cases by their feet.
“Well, there’s twenty minutes before soundcheck. Is that enough time, Mr. Shunichi?” Charlie professionally pressed. But before the directed question could be answered, a sarcastic voice piped up.
“I never need more than five.”
Guffaws followed the lewd joke. A fist collided with an arm in a ruffled sound of violence.
“More like thirty seconds.”
“Get a grip, Alex.”
Charlie sighed at the rising chatter that derailed expectations. He turned towards Ibe. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck.”
Ibe nodded, and Eiji heard the door open and close once more. Another silence eased its way in as introductions began.
“Hello, I’m Ibe.” There was a pause, and Eiji assumed that they all must be shaking hands. Wandering eyes proceeded to fall onto him. “This is my photography assistant, Eiji.”
Feeling a ridiculous amount of gazes land in his direction, Eiji lifted his head with a shy and polite expression. Easy-going waves and welcoming hello’s were exchanged from the colorful group, and for the first time since they clambered in, Eiji was truly able to look at them.
A stocky asian boy with bright hair, smirking beneath Lennon style shades. A chestnut-haired boy with his chest on display and a toothpick behind his ear. Two bustling opposites with matching ponytails, one round and dark and one scrawny and crooked.
Then there was the boy who refused to smile.
He had blonde hair, long and undoubtedly bohemian, that heightened the Americana attitude he rightfully sported. And despite that cold expression he wore so very well, those green eyes of rarity were glittery with interest.
He was cool. Even Eiji knew that.
“Mind if we sit on the couch?” The smallest boy asked - the one who wore overalls that were loose on his frame and rolled at the heel.
But before an answer could be given, the band settled themselves down anyway - sprawling against the dented couch, stretching their limbs in relaxation. And as he made his way towards that empty corduroy chair, that cool American boy of mystery muttered a low warning in Eiji’s ear.
“Don’t get the face.”
His breath tickled Eiji’s neck. He smelt of bergamot and tobacco and pine. He breezed away like nothing happened.
Dark eyes grew wide in response.
After settling in that flimsy fold-up chair, Ibe began with a polite cough and a flip of his scratch paper pad. He glanced around and noted everyone respectfully, jostling his pen around while doing so. His tape-recorder was already running.
He started like he always did. “Can I get everybody’s name and instruments?”
The bright-haired boy volunteered first, “Shorter Wong,” he said. He flicked his glasses down and gleamed across the brim. “Drums.”
The roll call proceeded down the line of the couch, tones passive and introductory - like AA meetings, someone jokingly pointed out. While doing so, they reached into their leather polyester pockets and pulled out zippos and paper-sticks. The room was then enveloped in the same smog that lingered outside.
“Alex.” The chestnut haired boy grumbled, a cigarette bouncing between his teeth. “Bass.”
“Bones,”
“Kong,”
“Hype-men.” They jinxed.
There was another laugh, raspy and collective, that was infecting Eiji’s smile. He had been watching all this unfold from the safety of the room’s far-left corner, privately memorizing everyone’s name and designated skill. Hype-men, he wondered. Did they not play instruments? Was that allowed?
Following the sound of Eiji’s airy chuckle, two green eyes glanced his way with another sideways stare. It was honestly quite impressive how intense those eyes could become - how easily they could pin someone to a wall. Eiji’s camera grew heavier at the sudden attention.
Accounting his purpose, he pulled the contraption upwards and fixed a few buttons on the complicated lens. That piercing stare flickered away once again.
Don't get the face.
“You two don’t play?” Ibe continued, addressing the hyperbole: polar opposite twins.
“Nah, we’re pals, though.” Kong explained. Bones violently nodded.
“Along for the ride.” He confirmed.
Shorter sighed. “We pick up a lot of strays.” He clarified.
A flash of white startled the hazy room as Eiji encapsulated the evening. Nineteen left in the cartridge.
Finally, Ibe then addressed the last unnamed boy with a friendly and expected gaze. “And you?”
The blonde turned his attention back onto the older interviewer, stretching out against the armchair while doing so. He reminded Eiji of a cat flicking his tail - warning off potential predators and invaders of personal space. This was his territory.
“Ash Lynx.” He scowled, courteous enough. He had a husky voice that confirmed his next statement. “Vocalist.”
That must be a stage name.
“Nah-ah,” Alex corrected, sitting up slightly. He waved his cigarette around like a nagging finger. “Put down hustler.”
“Or asshole,” Shorter added.
“What about frontman?” Ash reminded, words dangerous yet still quirking in scourged humor. He turned towards Ibe once more and shook off the joke. “Guitarist, too.”
Eiji perked his head up.
Ash noticed.
“So,” Ibe described the final boy with a crackle of his scribbling pen. He moved on. “This is your home venue, right? You all live in New York?”
“Mm,” Shorter confirmed. “We’ve been playing here for ‘bout a year. Been drinkin’ at the bar since we were… don’t put that down, actually. Off the record.”
“You’ll get us arrested before we even start the fuckin’ tour,” Alex nudged. Shorter flicked his ear, mumbling something about being a goddamn drunk since the goddamn age of twelve.
“Speaking of tour,” Ibe interjected - attempting to steer them back onto the designated topic. “What’s the schedule looking like?”
Expectantly, Eiji couldn’t understand a lot of things. But he knew how to decipher times - places and dates - and for some reason he thought those were important.
His camera lay limp in his hands.
“Play tonight, head out first thing after,” Alex shrugged. “Bounce ‘round a couple of cities. Our plan is to make it to the west coast by August.”
“How?”
“We got a van.”
“Shaggin’ wagon.” Someone added. Another ear flick.
Ibe smiled - either out of genuine amusement or forced pleasantries. “So are there any specific shows lined up? Or is it just to see the country?”
“Just free love, man. If they pay us, then that’s a bonus.”
Ibe nodded with another long scribble. There was a silence as the group waited for him to finish.
“So why August?” He eventually asked. “School?”
Mocking laughter erupted at the thought of dutiful education.
“Nah-h, we’re dropouts, man,” Shorter swiped a thumb across his nose and gestured it to the quiet blonde. “Pretty boy here turns eighteen on the twelfth, so we figured we’d celebrate in LA.”
Ash shot him a look that was sure to hold some sort of childish embarrassment beneath it - he was only seventeen, afterall. He proceeded to grumble towards Ibe’s report, spiking his obvious annoyance with a glare that concluded the interview.
“We should probably tune up.” He said.
“Ah,” Ibe checked his watch with an observant brow. “You’re right.”
“Why the name Banana Fish?”
All those various eye colors and expressions landed on Eiji like steady raindrops, splashing his face with individual shock. He squirmed against the storm, gathering courage to elaborate.
“J.D Sallinger?” His tone was tipping into a pitiful conviction, much to his restraint. He attempted to scrape together the English translation of the book he read in school, the one in which he assumed the band had named themselves after. “Uh, ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish?’” He recalled.
“Yes.”
Eiji looked back down to the boy with the husky voice - to Ash Lynx. There was a charmed expression in those eyes, one that Eiji couldn’t help but melt into. No one’s ever guessed the name right.
Cool.
Ash eased away from the chair and wiped that placid expression off his face - he wasn’t one to be so transparent with his surprise. Ignoring the obvious looks shot in his direction from his bandmates, he spoke into the room.
“Let’s tune.”
****
“Where in the East you from?”
Eiji looked up, eyes wide from the sudden attention. “What?”
Shorter smiled, still working on that half-rolled spliff. The two were leaning against the designated wall, watching as the other’s fiddled with their instruments in a musical clatter. His drumsticks were poking out of his back pocket, for there wasn’t much he could tune.
“Eiji’s a Japanese name, right?” He continued. A dull rhythmic thumping exceeded out of Alex’s unplugged bass. “Where in Japan are you from?”
“Oh,” Eiji caught on. “Izumo.”
“Big city?”
He shrugged. Shorter widened his grin.
“Welcome to the nightlife, then.”
“Aye Shorter!” Alex interrupted. He clutched his black bass beneath him. “Have you seen my pick?”
Shorter groaned and pushed himself off the wall, digging around in those vast pockets while doing so. The two began arguing about ‘wrong’ and ‘right’ picks, all while Eiji settled back into the familiarity of isolation, for Ibe was busy chatting away with Bones and Kong for extra pieces of information.
Leaving only Ash to be one for conversation.
He had plucked his guitar out from it’s beaten case almost immediately, and despite the indents on the fretboard from years of use, the instrument itself seemed polished and new. Well loved, Eiji thought.
The body was an ombre sunburst - a bright orange middle, bleeding into a dark edged maroon - that caught the fluorescent lights above spectacularly. There were decals, similar to a violin’s or cello’s, hugging either side of the pearly pickup. Six golden strings ran up the sleek checkered frets, to which Ash individually plucked until the notes were deemed satisfactory.
He held the guitar so naturally. Intimately. It practically melted against his chest.
Eiji placed his camera down and walked over.
“Is that an electric guitar?”
Ash looked up from between a tussle of blonde bangs, his fingers hesitating over the thickest string and designated tuning peg. A crease formed between his brows as he settled his posture.
“Meaning?”
His tone dripped in an obviousness that made Eiji internally crumple - of course it was electric. “Ah,” He explained. “I’ve never seen one up close.”
By now, Alex and Shorter were glancing in their direction with expectant eyes, watching as their tough frontman addressed the timid photographer. The pause in the bass’s pittering caused the other three to look over as well, leaving the next question to be heard by everybody’s shocked ears.
“Can I hold it?”
Eyes grew wide and blonde brows quipped. He shrugged.
“Sure thing.”
Eyes grew wider as Ash Lynx stood, carrying the instrument between it’s base and neck like a fifth limb. He looped the leather strap, the one that was intricately decorated with hippie suns and geometric shapes, off his body and onto Eiji’s own. It was a tad looser against the shorter boy’s chest, so Ash proceeded to adjust Eiji’s fingers until they rested in a comfortable position across the wood.
He was acutely aware of everyone’s surprised stares, though he didn’t seem to care. He never did.
“Wow!” Eiji exclaimed, undeniably happy. He awed the sleek instrument with sparkling eyes and careful grips of uncalloused hands. He didn’t even bother to touch the strings. “It’s really heavy.”
Ash watched with an unreadable expression, hands dug casually into his flared pockets. He took them out once again as Eiji gestured the guitar back.
“Thanks for trusting me with it.” He said, voice still light with excitement. He ducked his head out of the strap and ruffled his hair in the process. He didn’t look as clean, now.
At some point between this musical exchange, Ibe had rustled his way over. He placed a hand on Eiji’s now-free shoulder and flustered between them and the American. He proceeded to apologize profusely, for even he knew about the singer’s short temper.
But to everyone’s observant surprise, and for the first time that night, Ash’s lips quirked up. It wasn’t a very genuine smile, but even the smallest gesture of joy seemed to light up the room. A sun, Eiji realized. He was staring at the sun.
The sun turned back around with a tsk.
“You’re such a kid.” He said.
****
Ibe had allowed Eiji one drink. Just one.
“Don’t tell your mother.” He warned from over his own copper bottle. He swung it back with an impressive arch, coaxing Eiji to wonder how often the older man indulged in his vices.
They were nestled in yet another corner, though this one was darker and dirtier and far less obvious, drinking their bitter beers and watching the venue thicken. A soundcheck was happening above stage - an occasional snare beat, buzzing microphone, miniscule bass riff that varied in volume - signaling to the sparkling crowd that they would be starting soon. Anticipation coiled itself around the corrupted lungs of youth and laughed it’s way back out.
Adding to the congenial atmosphere, the obvious familiarity between the crowd and band - that proved Shorter’s earlier declaration of playing here for years - rose like the smoke above their heads. Eiji watched those cloudy whisps dance across the low-hanging ceiling with interest, wondering if that particular vice tasted as strange as it smelled.
Perhaps it was the alcohol that made him think like this. He took another sip.
The bright lights above the stage was the only thing illuminating the tightly packed venue, and it seemed that Ash absorbed about half of their beams. His celestial presence proved itself true - every flip of his blonde hair shimmered like stardust, and his half-done button-up billowed like a supernova. A boyish American sun, it seemed. No wonder he was the frontman.
And when that hair flipped for a final time and the wirey microphone stand was given one last adjustment, Ibe gave Eiji a look.
“Do you want me to take the photos?” He asked sympathetically, his voice rising to a shout in order to be heard. He eyed the camera around Eiji’s neck. “You’re going to have to get pretty close to get anything good.”
“No,” Eiji nearly interrupted, unable to hide his eagerness. He placed his half-chugged beer in Ibe’s hand and uncapped the lens. “I’ll do it.”
A crackle rang out around the room like thunder. “Check, check.”
Eiji practically whipped his head up to the noise. On stage, Ash was leaning against the flimsy stand with folded hands, nodding in confirmation to his friend’s behind him. A few cheers left the crowd in an anticipated response - things were about to start.
Eiji didn’t even give Ibe a second glance. That was goodbye.
With shaking fingers, he kept the camera close to his chest and weaved through the bustle of drunken bodies. Due to the close proximity, Eiji was positive he had picked up on every girl’s rosy perfume and on every boy’s citrus cologne in passing. And in another muddled thought of tipsy excitement, he hoped it all would cling. He wanted to smell like the way American’s do when they’re high, or in love, or in crowds. He wanted the scents of this wild country to embed itself in the stitches of his sweaters and in the strands of his hair. It was already in the veins of his heart, anyway.
By the time he skidded his brown loafers - that were far too clean - to a stumbling hault, his camera had kissed indents into his palms. He was trembling. He was sure of it.
And with his eyes still wide with ecstasy, Eiji strained his neck upwards to gaze upon the three shadows onstage. One shadow in particular gleamed back down from his place in the make-shift universe - the center. The sun.
He carried stardust with every step forwards. He pressed his lips against the mic and drew in a silencing breath.
And then he sang.
Perhaps it was just a trick of the stage lights, or the inebriation of that amber liquid, but Eiji swore he saw it.
He swore Ash Lynx smiled for the second time that night.
****
“No, no,” Alex barked, his toothpick bouncing around his lopsided frown. He smacked Bones’s hand away with an annoyed strike. “Put the case sideways, dumbass.”
Bones grumbled and shifted the heavy plastic upright, nestling it between the tied up drum-kit. Alex gave a satisfactory nod to the tetris-like crowding before turning towards Ash.
“Alright, give me yours.” He gestured.
“Sits up with me.” Ash rasped lowly - more so than normal. Sweat glistened off the bridge of his temple as he made his way to the side of the van, his beaten case swinging by his right-hand side. Alex shrugged and closed the trunk with a slam.
“Good turn out tonight.” Shorter noted from his loitering stance. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slipped the camping flask into Ash’s own. “Rest easy, Morrison.”
Kong poked his head out the open van door, eyes bright and searching.
“Y’all were rockin’ tonight!” He praised. Bones bundled by his side in agreement.
“Lynx especially, eh?” Alex teased, nudging a provoking elbow to the taller boy’s rib cage in passing. Ash shot him a look from over the canteen, remaining characteristically silent to the collective praise. He took another sip.
“I wonder why that is.” Shorter hummed.
Ash shifted his gaze across the venue’s parking lot with a fading-post performance high. The orange glow of the nearby streetlamps caught the lingering glitter in those green eyes.
It was a really good performance.
“So when’s that article 'posed to be published again?” Kong ironically asked - not knowing about the silent taunt that Shorter had just given their singer. “I wanna see those pictures, man. We’ve never been photographed before.”
“Tomorrow.” Alex answered as he clambered in behind the wheel. Clanging could be heard from his position as he adjusted the seat and scourged for a map.
Bones grew giddy. “That fast?”
“They type it up tonight and print it in the morning, dumbass.” A rustle of paper. “Hey, how the fuck do you read street-maps?”
Shorter groaned. “Jesus Christ, let me drive.”
“Mm. That’s probably for the best.”
“Fucking illiterate.”
“Watch it.”
“Guys,” Ash grumbled, his stoney exterior finally cracking in annoyance. “We’re not even on the road yet and you’re already…”
His tired voice trailed away into a quiet shock. Everyone twisted their heads to follow his wide-eyed line of sight, where a figure seemed to be scampering it’s way across the dimly lit parking lot.
Ash pushed himself off the van as the body neared.
“Well,” Shorter whistled in recognition. “Look who it is.”
The heaving boy skidded to a halt, breath running in his own panting melody of song. The five members waited in buzzing anticipation - similar to the one the crowd had sported - as the boy caught his composure. When he finally did speak, it came out an airy laugh.
“Need a photographer?”
Bones and Kong grew ecstatic at the prospect. Alex chuckled. Ash was still wide-eyed.
“Does Mr. Shunichi know about this?” Shorter asked, though it looked like he hardly needed to be convinced. He tilted his shades down and peered across their brim.
“No,” Eiji straightened. “He doesn’t.”
“You run away from him, then?”
A nod.
“How?”
“Bathroom window.”
Shorter threw his head back with a surprised laugh. Now that Eiji pointed it out, the tear in his pressed pants seemed to have come from a narrow and clumsy climb. The thought nulled Ash’s shock and replaced it with amusement.
“Well,” Shorter eased with a trailing sigh. “You passed initiation, then.”
“Initiation?” Eiji asked. He was still huffing from his sporadic escape.
“We’re all run-aways, man.” Kong explained.
“Lost boys.” Alex dutifully piped up. His toothpick swayed beneath his teeth. “That’s the only requirement.”
There was another nod and pittering silence as Eiji swallowed. He seemed to be connecting those implied dots.
“So I can go?” He asked.
Communicative looks were exchanged at the proposition. Eiji watched, clutching the camera by his side with a red knuckled grip. His ears were still ringing, but perhaps that was just his hope blinding his senses.
Shorter was the first to declare him fit. “We got the room.” He shrugged.
Bones followed suit. “You gon’ take photos, right?”
Eiji nodded.
“Then we’re down.” Kong answered. Alex popped his head out the rolled down window for the second time.
“If he wants to sleep in a van and shower once a week, who’s to stop him.” He flicked his toothpick onto the pavement. “I’m down with it.”
Expectant heads all swiveled to the stone-faced frontman, searching for a last opinion to settle the score. On Eiji Okumura’s trial of arrival, Ash Lynx was decidedly the final judge to the jury.
The frontman, vocalist, guitarist, and run-away closed the space between him and the Japanese photographer. His voice crackled like thunderous gravel, strained and well-used from song.
“You sure, kid?”
Eiji’s expression melted into something warm - something hopeful. It was the same one he had sported when he held that beloved guitar, or when he first looked up at the sun-speckled stage. He wasn’t exactly sure why this scrappy Brooklyn band changed his view on this country, but there was one thing he was absolutely sure of.
Infact, he was never so sure about anything in his entire life.
“Take me with you.”