Sleeping with the Enemy (6)
“Mm.”
Tae-il swallowed a groan.
No matter how dynamic the staging or composition, manga is ultimately a static medium.
Sometimes people say a character or scene feels alive and breathing, but a manga is still just a manga.
It stands still. It's not animation.
Performance scenes are chopped into tiny fragments, capturing only specific motions in brief snippets.
Animation isn't all that different.
That world ignores the laws of physics from the start—it's a flat plane.
Ah, this is tough.
A dizzying chill raced up his spine, and Tae-il squeezed his eyes shut.
It was just a single bass kick beat.
Strictly speaking, it wasn't much different from Rena gripping a guitar and placing her hand on the fretboard.
Yet to Tae-il, it felt like the towering wall of reality was blocking his path.
Reality whispered to him.
Physical differences.
Tae-il opened his eyes again.
Seeing it in person, he almost doubted if that was really a drum.
“U-um...”
Rena ducked her head, swallowing her embarrassment.
A humiliating shame and guilt she couldn't voice aloud bound her tight.
She was mortified at herself for startling at the kick pedal she'd never touched before.
The pedal had given way far more smoothly than expected, and she'd unwittingly stomped out a huge sound.
And that wasn't all.
She hadn't been able to brace against the force as the pedal depressed, her hips even bucking up.
Say something...
As Rena reached the verge of dying from shame, Takahashi timed it perfectly and nudged Tae-il's side with her elbow.
“That okay?”
“Ahaha.”
Tae-il could only laugh awkwardly.
This is hard...
Regardless of his deepening worries, he broke the silence.
“Let's try the hi-hat next. Lock the up-down for now.”
“You mean step on the pedal? Like this?”
Eager to escape the awkwardness, Rena quickly pressed the pedal with her left foot and tapped the hi-hat.
Ching!
Compared to the bass drum she'd just unleashed, it was a noticeably thin, single note that rang out.
Rena jumped in surprise.
“You good?”
“No, it feels... weird somehow...”
Rena stared oddly at her own hand gripping the stick.
She hadn't put any extra force into it—just a light tap.
What the hell?
The way the stick wrapped in her hand felt all wrong. Completely different from holding a brush.
Is it because the stick's grip is crappy?
As the sensation-sensitive Rena grew confused, Tae-il gave the next instruction.
“Now try without stepping on the pedal.”
“Wh-what? What'd you say?”
“No pedal—hit it like before.”
Rena clenched her trembling jaw, sealing her lips tight, and nodded.
It'll be fine, right? Not too loud...
No.
Drums are loud. A chaotic mass of noise that scrambles the mind. You could be careful a hundred times and still not enough.
Prejudice dominated Rena's thoughts.
“Honjo?”
She kept a moderate tension, tucking her neck slightly and extending her arm to the hi-hat.
The trembling stick grazed it.
Ching—.
For all her fear, it was an absurdly small sound.
To shake off the embarrassment, Rena pressed the stick from her right hand firmly to her temple.
“No big deal, right?”
“Haa...”
Rena slumped her shoulders and nodded.
Hesitation gone, her left hand tapped the hi-hat repeatedly.
“Yeah, the sound's a bit off-key.”
“Right?”
Tae-il grabbed the hi-hat with his hand to mute it.
“Next, snare. Hit it repeatedly with both hands. Like the duh-duh-duh that builds tension.”
“The height's a bit uncomfortable...”
“Yeah? I'll lower it more. Hold on.”
Tae-il stepped up and adjusted the snare drum's height.
Rena leaned blankly against the wall, silently watching his profile.
What the hell makes him so happy...
Finding joy in something so trivial was undeniably enviable.
As she propped her elbow on her knee and rested her chin, dazedly staring, the adjustment finished.
“How's that?”
“Huh?”
“The drum height. Try your posture.”
Tae-il stepped aside, and Rena assumed position again.
“For the snare, use wrist snap. No need to swing your arms big.”
“Hey. Am I locked into drums or what?”
“Not yet.”
Not fully convinced, she followed instructions and thumped the snare.
Tat-tat-tat.
“Whoa, I think I've heard this sound a lot.”
“Right?”
Tae-il grinned and chimed in.
“Snare, bass, hi-hat—these are basically the core rhythm. You'll hear them most in band sounds. Familiar's no surprise.”
“So I'm definitely drums, huh?”
The stark difference in detail from guitar made Rena uneasy.
“Now the crash cymbal. It'll be loud, so don't hit hard. Light, with wrist.”
Zzeng!
Despite the warning, tension botched her control, and Rena shuddered violently.
The crash's piercing, stabbing crash was no shock an amateur could brace for.
Rena recoiled from the drum in horror.
“Sh-shouldn't we use earplugs for this!?”
“Khk!”
Tae-il stifled laughter as Rena freaked like she'd grabbed some horrific weapon.
“Hit lighter. Aim for chaeng, not zzeng.”
“Lighter...?”
Wiping tears from laughing, Tae-il instructed, and Rena skeptically flicked her wrist.
Chaeng!
It pierced the ears too, but less torturously than before.
Tae-il beamed and leaned in.
“How's it feel?”
“Wh-what's that supposed to mean?”
“The sensation of playing drums. The vibe, whatever. Anything you feel.”
Rena paled.
The thought she might really end up on drums made her blurt desperately.
“U-um, wait... no, Shin-whatever!”
“Yeah? What?”
He doesn't even get mad at 'Shin-whatever'.
Takahashi chuckled from a step away, watching them.
“No matter how I think, drums just don't fit, right?”
“Yeah. I think so too.”
“You knew and kept pushing!?!”
“Gotta try everything.”
As Rena gaped, Tae-il played it cool.
He'd taken leader responsibility, but that didn't erase Rena's burden instantly.
Human psychology seems simple yet complex and tricky.
Tae-il decided to gradually ease her pressure.
First, strip away Honjo's 'specialness'.
How to strip the uniqueness of this half-British genius artist girl, Iris's friend.
Instruments in our band are first-come, first-served.
“If you're mad, you should've come before Iris.”
“You call that talk...!”
She bristled but saw Tae-il's sly grin, realizing the tease, and swallowed her anger.
“We'll check guitar again. But if drums suit better, position's set.”
“Common sense says no way...”
Other instruments too, but drums especially burdened her.
Rena knew she was physically disadvantaged for drums.
“Drums might actually suit you better?”
“Why?”
“Gives you an excuse when Arisugawa gets mad later.”
“Excuse? You don't mean...”
Rena scowled.
She feared Iris's ire, but Tae-il's words kept prickling her pride.
Even in his home turf, getting pushed around nonstop made her want to land a hit.
Her eyes rolled, searching for a counter—then spotted the keyboard.
“P-piano?”
“Synth?”
“I'm good at memorizing, y'know!”
Rena vaguely recalled body traits suiting piano.
Small but long enough fingers.
Stamina and focus to draw nonstop half a day.
And finger strength honed by drawing.
Huh? Maybe I'm piano material?
Expectant, she eyed Tae-il.
But unlike her hopes, his expression didn't change.
He even asked back oddly.
“Synths are way harder than drums?”
“Wh-what? Hard?”
Wasn't a synth just a piano making electronic sounds?
As Rena failed to grasp it, Takahashi chimed in.
“Teacher agrees. Strictly, synth's a whole different instrument from piano, Miss Honjo.”
She'd thought it plausible, but the backlash was negative.
Not just Tae-il—even music teacher Takahashi agreed.
“That much...?”
“Heh. Teacher struggled tons in school too.”
Synthesizers are electronic instruments' revolution.
And revolutions have insane entry barriers.
Just making sounds isn't hard.
Problem's incorporating into band sound.
“Bands have sounds that fit them.”
Not band-exclusive. Music genres have fitting sounds.
“Keyboardists must tweak effects for their band's sound.”
“Drums usually set the genre, but...”
Synths overpower.
Mastered, they're seasoning enhancing flavor; botched, they ruin the dish.
Tae-il wasn't building a pro band.
But low song difficulty didn't mean less effort.
Iris's wish, Tae-il's dream demanded matching work.
Instrument mastery mirrors life.
Slow, dedicated polish.
Synths demand most talent and effort.
Unless you're a time-cheater like Tae-il's Bill Gates soul, efficiency tanks.
Synth's mine anyway—I'll handle composing too.
Plus, he doubted non-practical-music Rena could master synth short-term.
Even if she could, he didn't want that. His last pride.
Rejected, Rena pouted.
“So, drums it is for me.”
“Ahaha.”
Tae-il laughed awkwardly.
Somehow, it ended up that way. He couldn't shake the original story's bias.
“Drums suit you best, Honjo. For real. No joke.”
He had to say it.
“You have your main gig too.”
Balancing art and band is absurd.
If hobby-level, maybe—but Rena's pro, holding solo shows.
Plus Comic-Con too.
Already swamped, synths would mean quitting art.
Drums, though—original story had her master them somehow. Tae-il subconsciously believed she could.
He was thrilled she'd join, but not at art's expense.
Her art was another weapon. Too wasteful to drop.
“Main gig...”
Even after explanation, Rena's expression didn't clear.
She clenched and unclenched her stick hand repeatedly.
A hand meant for pencils, brushes, palettes.
“I don't really see drawing as my main gig 'cause I love it.”
“Honjo...?”
“More like, I can do it, so I do.”
She could quit anytime.
Not glory-chasing type.
“But Iris is different. She does everything for fun. And loves it so much she can't quit.”
That's why, despite calling her friend, Rena couldn't understand Iris.
Rena had never done anything purely for joy.
Though moments of joy happened.
Times with family and Iris.
Rena demurely set her stick hand on her thigh.
“You're like Iris. Right?”
“...”
Tae-il scratched his cheek.
“Mm. If I'm like Arisugawa, she'd be crazy too?”
“Then she's crazy. Wouldn't you say?”
“Uh, uh yeah...”
Rena bluntly acknowledged Iris's madness.
Flipping it, Tae-il was speechless.
“That fun? Music.”
“Yeah. Fun. Painful, but?”
“You weirdos. Go through hellish pain, then why dive back in?”
If not mad for marching to hell willingly, what is?
Rena inhaled.
“All I can do is scribble unknown crap on white canvas.”
Her white canvas filled with abstract, metaphysical art.
Even she didn't know what she drew.
Yet it held astronomical value.
“People slap on interpretations I can't grasp. Then call my scribbles masterpieces.”
She knew she had talent.
No formal training young, yet better than peers or elders.
Back then, she could self-assess objectively.
Now, even she tilted her head.
Arisugawa Zenjiro's sponsorship for her solo show chipped her talent faith.
What value in such art?
Doujinshi baring raw desires felt better.
To them, it's simple: hot or not.
How straightforward.
But artists' and critics' verdicts baffled her.
Eventually, she realized.
'Genius' artist Honjo Rena was just a doll for adults' money games.
Genius was fleeting.
Her life had rails. She just walked them.
Monotonous, no thrill.
Doujin detour brief—who knows how long.
While useful, struggles futile—she'd return to track.
Rena didn't conform; she just worshiped an idol.
“I've never dreamed. Never envied it.”
Always someone dreaming nearby, but never envy.
Dreamers' ends uniformly bad.
Iris too.
She dreamed like Icarus, crashed.
So no envy.
Even glad she returned to normal.
“But. Iris is dreaming again.”
True to her madness, challenging dreams anew.
Maybe she sees herself as Wright brothers, not Icarus.
Watching stirred dark emotions inside.
Jealousy?
Probably.
Dreams were what she lacked.
“Honjo, you could too...”
“Dreams mean nothing to me.”
Some say: tons of money, that's enough.
But Rena couldn't assign meaning to riches.
If money can't solve it, you just need more—same boat.
If money solves problems, how much more must I earn?
Her father earned more, worked harder, less family time.
Her idol, dearest Iris—money couldn't save.
Even max earnings paled to Arisugawas.
Most her income from them anyway.
Music same.
Even major debut, Zenjiro wouldn't approve.
Lifelong caged bird ignores open door.
World's just that cage.
Rena knew; Iris likely too.
Escape? Back soon. Safest world.
All felt futile.
“Really, what's so fun about this crap...”
“Wanna try hitting it?”
“What?”
Tae-il cut her spiraling negativity.
“Here goes?”
He grabbed her hand, slammed the crash.
Zzang!
The ear-shredding boom jolted her like electrocution.
She yelled at him.
“Hey! What the hell?!”
“Keep going.”
Tae-il gripped her hands from behind.
“What bullshit is this...”
“Faster.”
Her arms moved against her will.
Left and right hit snare and hi-hat.
Basic beat, but legs frozen—near dissonance.
No hi-hat up-down lock, no bass pedal—sound hollow, sloppy.
Each snare rim strike twitched her body.
Head hurts.
Hi-hat droned long tones, scrambling mind.
Still, right hand alternated tom-toms, flailing.
Vision shook.
No—shaking was her.
Earthquake-like, vibrations rumbled from soles up legs.
Ow.
Tae-il's grip tightened.
Sounds boomed louder, vibrations rocked her harder.
Wrists ached.
Drumming pain or his grip? Unclear.
Soul-shaking.
Noise and vibes overwhelmed sanity.
“Honjo, pedal.”
His voice cut clear through distorted world.
Unthinkingly, right foot stomped kick wildly.
No rhythm, machine-broken, thighs bucking.
Desperate thrash against pinned arms.
Missing sound filled.
Chaos castle gained bass drum's deep echo anchoring.
Tae-il synced her arms intuitively to bass.
Light.
Resisting at first, now limp—flung by him.
Dong-dong.
Bass pulses settled chaotic army, discipline forming.
Regained grandeur.
Marched.
Soldiers moved in unison sans mad commander.
Huh?
Discordant beat harmonized; commander regained wits.
Odd.
Arms uncontrolled slashing air, hitting drums; feet stomping huge kicks.
Strength drained.
Should feel bad, but weirdly good.
Like drugs.
Makes sense?
Rena questioned.
Sane mind, drugs?
World froze; vision widened.
Why can I see?
Perplexed.
Felt left/right hands' paths clear.
Imagination?
Tensed wrists.
Faster than his intent.
Teng!
Body learned repetitive rhythm, moved naturally.
Off-beats self-corrected speed, found place.
Arms numbed to sting; force eased.
Sticky back heat soaked uniform, sweat-drenched skin.
Dong-dong-tak.
Dong-dong-tak.
Duh-duh-duh-duh ching-ching tak.
Tik!
Stick glanced hi-hat, flew off.
Rhythm snapped; Rena snapped awake.
“Huh?”
Blankly eyed right hand. Palm stung like gripping iron bar.
Gently soothed spasming hand.
Static prickled.
Unknowingly jaw trembled, ragged breaths.
Clap-clap.
Turned at applause.
Tae-il beside Takahashi, sweat-soaked, clapping.
“Was gonna ask how it felt...”
He grinned.
“No need now, huh?”
* * *
Takahashi wrapped Rena's wrist in bandage.
Tae-il's tight grip left red marks, now hidden under white.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
Gym clothes Rena hugged legs with left arm. Uniform shed long ago, sweat-soaked.
“Taichi a bit rough, huh?”
“Yeah. Totally.”
Rena nodded agreement.
Bandage dulled it now, but wrist crushed by Tae-il had throbbed badly.
Right hand too...
She'd gripped hard too; fingers still twitched.
“Miss Honjo, right hand okay? Stick was rough.”
“Hurts a bit. No stabbing pain.”
“Good. No infirmary needed.”
“Yeah.”
Rena agreed.
Injury record would've reached chairman via infirmary.
Then Dad...
Even if she said fine, doting dad would kill Tae-il.
Rena buried face between knees.
“Teacher did band too, right...”
“Yeah? Half-forced.”
Dragged to light music club for piano skills.
Bribed with snack bread, but still bad deal.
“How was it?”
“Band?”
Packing first-aid, Takahashi smiled wryly.
“Fun. Chaotic too.”
They'd snagged high-class talent like her with bread—not balanced, but she treasured it.
“No regrets. That's key.”
“Regrets?”
“Teacher's classical. Band stages? Never saw or did.”
Brass band max.
“Fresh experience.”
Takahashi reminisced fondly.
“Ah, but yours different.”
“Why?”
“Aiming major, right?”
She patted Rena's head proudly.
“We just played.”
“Different?”
“Yeah. No goals. Fun was it.”
Stages? School fest only. Prep terrifying.
“Y'know? First stage scary as hell?”
Memory talk flowed; Takahashi chattered, giggling nonstop.
“Concours three-four times, but fest stage shook more.”
“Why?”
Dunno? Not solo maybe? No clue.”
But.
“Super fun? Stage total mess.”
“Messy stage fun...?”
Rena eyed her incredulously.
“Lived sheltered, huh? Real talk. True.”
“But...”
Flashback hit.
Iris crying alone onstage; sessions sneering?
Club room curses.
Emotions impossible to enjoy.
“Ah, remembered.”
Takahashi clapped, burst laughing.
“Satisfied.”
“Satisfied?”
“Stage wrecked, but our best shot.”
All prep poured out. Embarrassing, satisfying.
“Enjoy the stage. That's key.”
“Feel joy, basically.”
“Right. Like you drumming just now.”
Was she joyful then?
Tae-il said obvious, but she couldn't tell.
Just slight desire to feel it again.
Knock-knock.
“Come in.”
“Um, she okay now?”
Door opened; Tae-il peeked worriedly.
“Wrist swelled a bit. Not serious.”
“G-good...”
Tae-il shuffled in sheepishly.
Gym-clothed like her, handed her held drink.
“Um, Honjo? This at least...?”
“Afternoon tea?”
“Apology.”
Afternoon tea, milk tea flavor.
Rena's favorite.
...Coincidence.
Suspicious much, but no grudge here.
“Ah...”
“Not good? Swap mine?”
“No, can't grip...”
“I'll open it!”
Tae-il snatched, twisted cap.
“Ah...”
“What now?”
“Too heavy—even bottle slips.”
“Uh...”
Tae-il eyed Takahashi pleadingly.
She smiled slyly.
“Taichi. Teacher's drink?”
“Ah...”
“Figure it solo.”
Takahashi returned seat, sipped cold green tea.
Rena teased fool-Tae-il sputtering ahs and uhs.
“Hey. Hurry.”
“No, uh... not embarrassing?”
“You groped my body all you wanted—say that?”
“Dangerous words!? Lucky Takahashi knows context. Others'd mishear bad!”
Tae-il panicked; Rena snickered.
“Fine, hurry. Sweaty, thirsty.”
“...”
Tae-il flushed, carefully tipped bottle to her lips.
Rena glared flatly.
“Tilt more.”
“Yep.”
Now she ruled. Tae-il obeyed meekly.
Slurp.
Three sips; she mumbled, he withdrew.
“G-good?”
“Thanks.”
Rena stood, snatched drink from his hand.
“Eh?”
Tossed bottle air, caught it.
Perfectly fine; Tae-il gaped, then yelled late.
“H-Honjo, you...!”
“Payback.”
Pale Tae-il; she smirked.
“And.”
Left hand jabbed bottle at him accusingly.
“Approve it proper. My application.”
“Eh?”
“You were gonna stick me drums anyway?”
“Really joining?”
Tae-il asked shocked.
Half-expected anger nix it.
Her pushing join baffled.
Rena growled at stunned Tae-il, drew stick from pocket with bandaged right.
“Drums. Assign other, I kill.”
“Y-yes...”
His firm yes; she smiled sweetly, slammed door.
Bam!
He flinched hard.
♪~♩~♬~
Perfect bell timing.
End-of-term ceremony over.
“Oh my.”
Takahashi crunched senbei, giggled.
“Congrats?”
“Ah, ahaha...”
Tae-il hung head.
* * *
“Hurts...”
Wrist throbbed.
Palm stung like gripped parallel bars.
Rubbing Tae-il's drink on wrist; condensation soaked bandage.
“Haa.”
Eyes closed, leaned wall, sighed.
“Home, shower then icepack first.”
Dong-dong-dong.
Huge drum echoed mind.
Hallucination vanished eyes open.
“Ridiculous.”
Stifled laugh with cold bottle on cheek.
Window reflected Rena's face.
If seen, they'd ask:
Happy about something?