Ohmiya: Without Words II
They shuffle through the upper decks of the dome, along carpeted hallways with high windows and skylights that catch what light can filter through the smog of the city. It’s early; they are the first to arrive after the stage crew and technicians. Ohno has perched a cap on his head, hair still crushed and flat from sleep; his grey sweatpants are stylishly wrinkled and the white leather of his new sneakers crunch with every step. One hand rests in his pocket and the other holds a cup of tea still too hot to drink. Nino yawns beside him, cap pulled low over his eyes and hood thrown over his head. His jeans ride low on his hips, perfectly stretched out after three days of wear. His sandals slap against the soles of his feet; he wasn’t awake enough to bother searching for a pair of clean socks at six a.m.
There are mumbled greetings and lazy waves of hands to staff and crew as they make their way through the underbelly of hallways hidden from sunlight and pedestrians. The walls are depressing creamy grey cinderblock, cold to the touch. They weave their way through the maze of corridors following hastily printed signs stuck to the walls, crooked with scotch tape, pointing the way to their green room.
There is a note from their manager on the coffee table requesting immediate attendance on stage and Ohno feels a bit like he’s playing a game with all these notes and signs but he doesn’t really know what the prize is. Nino makes a sleepy grunt and mutters darkly under his breath; the dress rehearsal doesn’t start until after noon so why are they here while the morning news is still on TV and he could be tucked into his bed content? Ohno catches Nino’s fingers before his hand disappears into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls him towards the door leading back stage.
Cables slap the ground, winches raising the batten loaded with lights squeak, stage hydraulics whir and bearings trundle in their tracks. They report to the stage manager who is talking rapid fire into his headset with the lighting co-ordinator in the control room about the program for the second set. The presets need to be redone with the new coloured filters so he sends Nino and Ohno to stand on the centre stage while adjustments are made. They sit in the centre of the Plexiglas platform and play Speed with the cards that live in Nino’s jeans. Ohno is surprised that he wins a few rounds but knows that it’s only because Nino is still in a semi-comatose state.
Voices of the crew and stage hands echo in the auditorium. The stage manager stands on the main stage, waving people in all directions with exaggerated movements, yelling into the wings and then into the mic of his headset. A crew member jogs downstage with a handful of earpieces and microphones that need to be tested. The system had to be replaced and installed at the last minute and still needs to be calibrated. Nino and Ohno are handed their pieces and wait for further instructions from the sound tech. Nino stretches out on the stage and pulls his cap over his face. Ohno clips his mic pack to the back of his sweats and drapes the ear pieces around his neck.
He plays with the pink tape around the bottom of the microphone and watches the organized chaos. He won’t tell anyone but this is his favourite part of any production. Watching all the pieces come together and fit snugly to complete a masterpiece; the hard work of hundreds of people to create something unique because no two shows are the same. And then seeing it all fall away and come apart when they strike the stage and leave the auditorium how they found it when they arrived. It’s mechanical and precise but something only people can produce. He’s been asked why he prefers the stage to television: the sweat and pain into making the audience believe your story without the aid of computer graphics or camera angles and lenses and the continuation of stagecraft was a feeling unequalled.
Ohno looks to Nino, his body prone on the Plexiglas and the gentle rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes. He wonders if the craft services people have arrived yet. It was at Nino’s insistence that they arrive so early and he feels slightly upset at being dragged from the warm embrace of his sheets. Nino wanted to run through his solo choreography on the stage before dress rehearsal and Ohno has an eye for detail; he can tell if Nino is off centre or if something needs to be changed, however slight. But nothing can be done until the lights and sound are set up and the crew have cleared off the stage.
Ohno finishes his tea and leaves Nino napping on the moveable stage. He drops down to the aisle running down the middle of the auditorium and shuffles up to the main stage. The stage manager is talking to the control room, fingers massaging his temples, his face flushed. Ohno avoids his wildly gesturing arms and hunts for a garbage bin for his cup. Ohno catches snippets of conversation, “You need to hook up the mics to the right channels,” - “… the mixing board is already labelled,” - “…don’t cross the wires or-” He finds a bin in the right wing, avoiding men and women brandishing masking tape and permanent markers.
Crew are taping and tiding bundles of chords, wires and cables - a sign that set up is coming to an end and that they are ready for sound check. Ohno fits his sparkly pink earpieces into his ears. From downstage left he can see Nino still napping, now rolled over onto his side with his head pillowed on his arm. The main stage is empty; the lights are on and the set is in its first position, the screens are playing the opening video on mute. He reaches behind and switches on the mic pack.
There is a faint buzz in his ears but that has been known to happen. Ohno isn’t a technician and doesn’t understand the inner workings of sound boards and mixers the way Sho does. The volume must be up on his set so he pays it no attention. He looks at his watch - it’s just after nine - and there are three figures at the back of the auditorium waving. Aiba, Jun and Sho have arrived; they can start the sound check and then Nino can have the stage to himself until lunch.
“Nino!” Ohno calls from the main stage. He goes unheard and Nino continues to slumber. He tries again with promises of “something special” for lunch but gets no response. He just isn’t loud enough. He pulls the mic from his pocket and flips the switch on the bottom.
They’ve all heard feedback. They’ve all heard the screech that comes from crossed wires and equipment being too close that shouldn’t be. It’s an occupational hazard. And then there was this: a high pitched buzz almost too high for the human ear to pick up, a shrill peal of sound that makes skin crawl and bodies flinch away without an escape, and a boom that rippled through the room, lapping at the walls with the vibrations of sound. All that sound compacted into a matter of seconds explodes through all the speakers as Ohno flips the switch. He drops the mic and rips the pieces out of his ears, his head ringing, the vibrations making him dizzy. His knees give out and he falls to the floor next to the microphone that is slowly rolling away.
Ohno shakes his head, trying to clear it of the fogginess that has trapped his senses but no matter how hard or fast he shakes, no matter which side he tips his head, he can’t sweep the fizzling blanket aside. He opens his eyes to see Nino sprinting down the trust stage, sliding to his knees in front of him. He knows he finds it strange that all Nino’s footsteps are silenced but the information doesn’t make an impact. He knows Nino is panting by the breath that hits his face and the vibration he feels under his hand has he touches Nino’s chest but can’t catch the tone of his breathing that rises like it was caught on an updraft.
“Oh my god, Satoshi, are you alright? I just saw- you dropped to the floor and I didn’t know what happened,” Nino is clutching at him and trembling in his lap, crying into his t-shirt. It seems oddly quiet for the amount of motion going on around them. The floorboards vibrate with running and people are waving. Ohno squints, his brow furrowing with concentration; the buzzing has stopped but he still can’t hear anything.
It doesn’t sink in until Nino has Ohno’s face in his hands and he is being talked to and the rich timbre, the warm consonance, the cadence that makes him sound like Nino has been stripped away. Ohno sees the lips that he knows more intimately than his own move and knows that they are forming words but he can’t hear them. The panic grips him and he starts to cry and Nino’s hands are wet from trying to brush the tears away. He knows he must be sobbing because he can feel his voice tumble from his throat but he has no control over it. He can’t make sense of what just happened and why something so precious has been torn away from him. He feels sick. He is sick.
Nino’s hands curl around Ohno’s neck, his thumbs brush his ears. He is solid and there, his grip is firm as he presses his forehead to Ohno’s. His eyes are dilated with anxiety as he looks at Ohno, his muted lips move in slow motion.
Ohno brings his fingers to those lips; he thinks maybe he could read the words there like Braille. He sees the shapes of his name repeated like a mantra, Satoshi, Satoshi, Satoshi. With the pressure of Nino’s hands on him, the cast of anxiety in those seductive eyes, he puzzles out the pieces on his lover’s lips: We’re going to fix this.
Comments? I feel like it wasn't as good as the first part but I wanted to get it written. D: