Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Oblivious Signals ❯ Tasting The Rain ( Chapter 1 )

Author's notes: Wee. Well, this was quite an adventure on my part. This chapter was really fun to write, for one reason or another. As of now, there is/will be a prologue, three chapters, and an epilogue. Or just two chapters, in case I don't have as many whacky ideas as I had thought! Anyway, here's the first installment. I hope you continue reading when the other chapters eventually make their way out of my brain and onto paper, figuratively speaking.

Disclaimer: Look at the one on my bio, naturally.

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O B L I V I O U S S I G N A L S
chapter one

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At slow speed we all seem focused
In motion we seem wrong
In summer we can taste the rain
I want you to be free
Don't worry about me
And just like the movies . . .
( "Movies." Alien Ant Farm. )

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It really wasn't the strangest of days, after all. No "birds of midnight" stood on the open street, or perched on high with help of an unlit street-lamp -- no omens straight out of Julius Caesar or another tragedy by William Shakespeare to announce to coming of the ancients, the death of a prince, or the like. It was a casual day in Odaiba, a Saturday if it ever was to become more cliché. The skies were splashed with a lovely shade of azure and cotton-candy tufts of turtledove clouds swam across it, aided by a breath of warm summer wind.

It wasn't at all strange for one particular youth to go soaring down the street, a man on a mission anyone could have joked, having sprinted for the last few minutes from wherever he had taken flight from. A dabble of sweat had condensed on the furrows of his brow, at home in the auburn ridges of skin, as his frame was canted forward only slightly as he went. A dog hurdled here, an old lady narrowly avoided there . . . and all with a lowly growl of annoyance or mutter of how rude this day's generation was. But he didn't care, not at all.

Hands met with a sun-weathered bar of sardonyx metal that kept him from entering his place of conquest, and with a merry jingle of bells proclaiming his entrance, Motomiya Daisuke literally flew into the hole-in-the-wall fast food establishment. Startled patrons looked up from their greasy meals of French fries and hamburgers, only to find whatever it was that had barreled its way in gone in a faint breeze made visible by tumbling pale yellow hamburger wrappers.

One particular booth was not surprised at all, however, and a couple of the persons that sat there actually winced when they heard such a clamor. The inevitable was coming, and they knew it. Even if they had been at peace with the raucous squeal of bells, all of them (except for the dark, quiet one at the far corner) jumped a foot in their seats as two curled fists slammed to the Formica coated tabletop. To accompany this fearsome sight, the braying of what could have been a dying giraffe fell atop the tremors that rocked the area.

"Yes . . . yes . . . YES!"

"Yes what?" Takaishi Takeru queried blandly, warily recovering his bucket hat from where it had been spilled to the ground moments earlier. He shot Daisuke a disdainful look for interrupting whatever it was he had been doing, but the boy took no notice.

"She said yes!" was all Daisuke could manage, nearly about to burst at the seams with the words that he just couldn't manage to push out of his mouth. He gripped the table so hard that if he happened to tighten his hold any further, the flesh of his hands would have turned chalk white. His angel, his dream, the beautiful and absolutely perfect Yagamii Hikari (soon to be Motomiya if Daisuke had his wish) had actually consented, had given verbal consent, to . . .

Inoue Miyako clucked her tongue from Takeru's left; pulling a wedge of deep-fried potato out of her pale amethyst hair that had somehow wheedled its way in during all of the chaos. "Spit it out already, Daisuke! Who said yes? And to what?"

"HIKARI-CHAN SAID SHE'D GO ON A DATE WITH ME!"

Complete, total silence.

Several minutes passed, or at least several seconds, mostly taken up by the gaping stares and/or loose jaws of his still-seated companions. Takeru, for one, looked like he was about to choke from swallowing his own tongue, and was only saved when Hida Iori, sitting in a transplanted seat at the head of the table, offered him the rest of his soda for emergency consumption. Miyako only gawked with the ungainliness of an estranged ostrich. The last member of the troupe, though, offered a truly kind, yet pained smile.

The silent calamity finally began to undo itself, especially with the unblocking of air passageways and the unlocking of jaws from their down-turned state of being. Takeru was the first to recover fully, and from over the rim of Iori's drink, he looked absolutely bewildered. Hikari said yes? Takeru muttered warily. You can't be serious. Daisuke grinned; Caught her hook, line, and sinker. If I find out you drugged her, Daisuke, Takeru pressed on, glowering. What kind of a guy do you think I am? Daisuke said, lifting a brow. Their heated discussion went onward, their audience watching something not unlike a verbal tennis match.

"Maybe Daisuke is the one dropping acid," Miyako sliced in at last, almost desperate for her own two cents worth, nudging Takeru as if to assure that at least someone heard her cutting remark while Daisuke continued his tirade in the background. She smirked coyly at Daisuke, who only responded otherwise by sticking his tongue out and tugging down on an eyelid.

He would have continued his childish show of disgust had it not been for the tingle of warmth that began to spread through him, centered on the one wrist that was not engaged in any sort of activity. With a start, he identified the source as the few porcelain fingers that lay on his own dark skin, emanating such a feeling of . . . "That's wonderful, Daisuke," Ichijouji Ken spoke softly, last of all. His dusky tenor was almost lost in the relative din of the restaurant. "I always hoped that she would bring you happiness."

Heart thudding painfully in his chest, Daisuke could not help but stare at the raven-haired Keeper of Kindness for what seemed like his own private eternity. Swallowing thickly past a sudden lump that had fixed itself in his throat, he failed to notice both the split-second's worth of acute pain in shimmery, beveled violet eyes and the passing heated indignation on his best friend's usually calm facade. He managed to flash Ken two rows of pearly whites, naturally stark on his face, in the company of dual thumbs up. It was then that the media-acclaimed prodigy returned back to what he had been doing prior to speaking, some sort of journal with pages literally soaked in ink from a black fountain pen that had scrawled zillions of alien formulae.

Daisuke mused for a moment (or for him, it was simply a rusted cranking of his brain's gear-work one notch forward in decision) over the situation, before deciding that rather than spending all afternoon getting ready for his date with the lovely Yagamii that night, he could spare at least a few minutes with his friends. He concluded with pushing Ken over to the corner of his booth, who had been sitting alone coincidentally, and taking up the newest amount of space for himself. The others since engaged in their own conversation, and Ken engrossed in his strange calculations, Daisuke could only help but watch him slave stiffly over his notebook.

On a whim of an afterthought, the Motomiya boisterously reached across the table to swipe a few fried potato pieces from Takeru's tray with little regret. Stuffing the greasy mess in his mouth before the conversing Takaishi may have noticed, Daisuke rid himself of any evidence with brushing his fingers on his denim vest, and finally resting his elbow casually on Ken's bony shoulder as if it had been there the entire time. Head canting slightly, he caught sight of what Ken was writing in his weird journal. Cinnamon and gold eyes squinted in befuddlement; the convoluted array of variables was enough to give him a headache from just looking!

"So . . . what're you doing, Ken?" Daisuke asked flatly, attempting to not sound stupid when dealing with his best friend's insanely high intelligence quotient. It wasn't that the said best friend thought him as being stupid so much as it was he didn't want Ken to ever decide that he, Daisuke, was too inferior to be friends with. It was hard to work out into coherent thought, as it always is when something is translated from pure emotion.

Ken's eyes flickered upward, flames of puce caught in glassy orbs of darkness, a movement that was almost jerky in completion. Rather than staring at Miyako, who he sat opposite of, he focused on the chipping and smudged lime green tabletop just in front of her resting forearms. A slender sapphire brow twitched slightly, not out of agitation, but rather how it always did when he was thinking -- Daisuke had nearly memorized Ken by heart, mind you -- and finally, his eyes turned left to the said Chosen. This was a much more controlled, cautious shift, before his entire head rotated in that direction.

The genius replied modestly enough, voice still not elevated any higher than it had been moments before. Daisuke had to strain just slightly to hear him. "I merely had a thought," was all that was said, even though that certain thought took up a number of once clean pages. The protected reserve in Ken's dark eyes was enough to prompt more silent question from the Motomiya by way of a brow lifting, although he was met with no further response.

"Right, right. It figures, Ichijouji," Daisuke mumbled in disappointment, casting his probing gaze away from his ambiguous best friend. Both eyes and one outstretched hand settled on another growth of fried treats protruding from a container on Takeru's tray, scooping and grasping for the maximum amount before withdrawing it all back to an awaiting mouth. Takeru noticed this commandeering of his meal, and reprimanded the thief accordingly. Daisuke ignored it, naturally. "Only you would do homework on a Saturday," he additionally supplied, licking his salty fingers and continuing to use Ken as his personal elbow-rest.

"Ichijouji" shrugged nonchalantly, apparently letting the commentary slide off his back with a manner not unlike water slithering off the downy feathers of a mallard. This action did not prevent him from continuing whatever it was he was figuring, and thus only left Daisuke to watch in awe (being envious of Ken was beyond him, and always would be). Ken took notice to neither his one-person audience nor the stultiloquence of the others across the table, his computations top priority it would seem.

Faceless seconds melted into identifiable minutes, all ebbing steadily away down the finite flow of time for the Chosen of a Digimental triad. Unwittingly, Daisuke lost all sense and track of time as he persisted with his strange obstinateness of watching Ken and his outwardly exhaustive work and talent with his mind and pen. The only climax of that entire duration was when Ken -- having spent an unknown span scrutinizing, crossing out, and rewriting his work all over again -- allowed a graceful three-sixty degree circle to be drawn, centered on one particular result. Evidently suited with that designated eventuality, he actually creased the stale perforation around one edge of that particular page with tapered blanch fingers. A constant use of pressure in the direction of his body let him tear out the piece of inky paper; he pocketed the item after folding it into a meek little square of black and white, hidden then somewhere in the depths of his grayscale school uniform.

There were a few strange things in that lackluster show that Daisuke happened to pick up on with an air of suspicion. First of all, if you had known Ken -- and Daisuke knew him, considering he prided himself upon being closer to the Ichijouji than anyone else, save Wormmon -- then you would know that he never let any sort of loose papers go willingly, being as primped and organized as he was. Secondly . . . well, it wasn't so odd when Daisuke thought for a moment. Ken always wore that uniform, or a rendition not unlike it, with an exception being only a sweater when it was chilly outside and his soccer team's dress.

Daisuke realized he had spent quite some time pondering over the irksome things his best friend did (that had the ability to drive him half up the wall in turmoil, no less), and a brief glance toward the fast food dwelling's wall clock confirmed that thought. Removing his elbow from Ken's milk-warm shoulder left him with the most inexplicable, yet fleeting sensation of intense rue. He was caught off-guard for a few moments, although it all soon passed as he continued sliding along the much cooler plastic seat toward where he could finally stand.

"Well, I guess . . ." murmured Daisuke, moreso for his benefit than anyone else's, unable to bring his polished brown eyes upward for those few words. At last, he steeled himself, and cast one exclusive final look at Ken, whose pale cornsilk eyes clashed with his natural self-appeasement. The child prodigy was watching him like a fierce sapphire hawk, so intently . . .

His eyes are beautiful.

Daisuke's heart flopped over with such a loud clang that he was sure the others would have heard it in its internal cacophony. However, their own eyes were only drawn to him when he continued further: "I guess I should go get ready for my date with Hikari-chan."

The words almost seemed sour on his tongue. And forced. He bit lightly on it afterward, rocking back unwittingly on his heels with an ounce of nervousness, its origin unknown, leaking into his system. Maybe it was Ken's eyes that had disarmed him. There was that glib sort of secrecy in his best friend's normal vigil that intrigued him, considering he was yet to master understanding its underlying motive.

All in the breadth of a second he had seen it, it being just enough to put him on an edge of queasy unease -- in those twinkling magenta eyes, there had been something flickering behind their external protective coating. This said coating was not unlike ice in some respects, keeping out those who would like to get to know the genius better. Essentially, Ken found trustworthy persons next to none . . . and so this was a barricade against "intruders." Daisuke, however, had earned the key to chipping off some of the frozen zeal, but obviously had not punched through entirely. Yet.

It was unnerving sometimes, considering if at any point Daisuke tried to search again for that exotic wavering flame of emotion, he would only find the black restraints that Ken usually watched from afar with. It was as if the windows to his soul had be slammed shut and the sash pulled down, the meager candlelight from within having been extinguished with the icy caress of a harvest moon's wind, haunting the byword-room in only ebony outlines of the original whatever-it-was --

"Daisuke, you do realize it's only one in the afternoon, right?"

His painful mental processing was cut short when a certain Takaishi's tart voice sliced through any epiphanies he was about to undertake (to some extent, at least). Daisuke glared bitterly at Takeru, tongue pressing fiercely against the roof of his mouth to prevent him from making an equally as biting remark before he could shoehorn it through his brain. After pausing over the words for a moment, he responded almost respectfully. There was the vague worry that Takeru may take to stalking Hikari and him all evening, just to ruin it . . .

"That's none of your business!" (There was the spite.) "But . . . it'll be in only a few hours." (The resolve and tapping of fingertips together.) "I want to impress her. So I'm gonna' dress sharp, buy a lot of funny-smelling flowers . . . y'know, that whole dating ritual thing." (A slight move for boldness; the clenching of his unwieldy fist in front of Takeru's face.)

"That is so romantic, Daisuke!" Miyako squealed. Yes, squealed -- a gruesome hybrid of jagged nails being raked down a chalkboard and helium being let squeakily out of a filled balloon. "I didn't think you had a single romantic bone in your body!"

"Nyah. You're jus' jealous I'm finally getting the girl of my dreams while you sulk in the single life, chasing down boys you can never get." Daisuke shot a look at Ken there, as if to emphasize the point. He was startled when he saw Ken looking so . . . subdued.

"Whatever, you goggle-wearing toad," Miyako mumbled, irritated extensively by that point. She drummed fine fingertips on the tabletop, eyes piercing him with that feral quality some more volatile young women were known to have. "Don't you have a date to get ready for, hm?"

"Yeah, yeah. I didn't forget. I'll see you guys later!" Daisuke called, already moving toward the doorway that would lead him out of the hellish environment of sizzling hamburgers and vats of boiling grease. Fresh air was within his reach, but first he had to finish off with a grin and arrogant remark (that was Motomiya Daisuke in essence). "Wish me luck!"

"Break a leg!" Iori called, finally speaking directly to the Motomiya rather than in snickers with Takeru while he was busy observing the Ichijouji.

"Literally!" Miyako added, laughing.

"Daisuke?"

A lightning-fast hand had grabbed his wrist as he turned away from the group, with that same addictive warmth that had permeated from such a similar touch earlier. Gulping down the revenge of the lump in his throat, he turned his head over his shoulder, hoisting his sienna brows almost guiltily. "Aa?"

"Give her my regards."

"All right, Ken."