🎸six strings - satoru gojo x reader
summary: you think gojo’s forgotten about you, after all he’s the guitarist of the most famous band - six strings - the same band you pushed him to pursue with his best friends shoko and geto. he got it all, the band, the fame but lost you in the midst of pursuing this passion. however, with the release of their new song has gojo really forgotten about you?
| wc: 5.3k | art credits - clemenlush | listen to the playlist attached for the best reading experience| rock star gojo au, angst.
satoru gojo had always been described as someone built for the cosmos, as if his entire existence had been engineered for equations, telescopes, and the kind of research that made academics salivate. his parents certainly believed it -- they’d mapped out his future with the precision of a launch trajectory, leaving no room for deviation, let alone rebellion. to them, he was a prodigy destined to expand humanity’s understanding of the universe.
but you, you’d never met anyone who looked more suffocated by praise.
the university’s astrophysics building loomed over the courtyard like a monument to ambition, it was all sharp lines and reflective panels that caught the afternoon light in a way that made the whole place feel like whoever you were...you were going places with your life. you stood beside satoru on the steps, both of you pretending you weren’t waiting for the results of the latest exam to drop. the two of you had been rivals since first year, constantly pushing each other, constantly pretending it was all casual.
it wasn’t casual. not even close. is it ever?
there was a current between you that neither of you acknowledged outright, an unspoken awareness that every argument, every late‑night study session, every shared glance carried a charge that didn’t belong to simple rivalry. it was apparent in the way he leaned a little too close and in the way you never quite pulled back, both of you pretending not to notice the gravity drawing you in. and somewhere in that unspoken space, the pattern revealed itself .
six eyes seeing too much, six strings waiting to be played, and saturn circling as the sixth planet.
all of them orbiting the same truth that the two of you kept avoiding, as if the universe itself had been quietly arranging your trajectories long before either of you realised.
satoru nudged your shoulder, “if the professor doesn’t adjust the marking again, half the cohort’s going to riot,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of arrogance and theatrical despair.
“you mean you’ll riot,” you replied, adjusting your bag. “you looked like you were about to combust halfway through question three.”
he scoffed, flicking his platnium hair out of from his glazes, revealing his bright blue eyes. “i don’t 'combust'. i merely reassess my priorities.”
you rolled your eyes, but the truth was you’d noticed the way his leg bounced under the desk, the way his pen tapped out restless patterns, how he stared at the page like he was somewhere else entirely. satoru gojo was brilliant, but brilliance didn’t always mean contentment.
you’d known him long enough to see the tension beneath the surface, he would stiffen whenever his parents’ names came up, he always avoided talking about the future, and his fingers drummed on tabletops with a flow that didn’t match any academic habit you’d ever seen.
you didn’t understand it fully until that afternoon.
instead of heading to the study session you’d both agreed to attend, satoru veered off the main path without warning, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “come on,” he said, not bothering to check if you were following.
you did, because you always did.
he led you across campus, past the observatory and the labs, past the places where he was meant to thrive. eventually he stopped in front of the old music building -- a relic from a time when the university pretended to care equally about the arts. the paint was peeling, and the windows rattled in the breeze, but there was something strangely inviting about it.
satoru pushed open a side door, and the scent of aged timber and dust drifted out.
inside, the room was cluttered with forgotten instruments and abandoned sheet music. he walked straight to a battered guitar case propped against the wall, hesitated for a moment, then opened it with a care you’d never seen him show to anything academic.
the electric guitar inside was sleek and dark, it was an instrument that demanded attention and fit his cocky personality perfectly. it didn’t match the version of satoru the world expected. but it matched the version of him you’d glimpsed in fleeting moments, the one who seemed desperate for something he couldn’t name.
“since when do you play?” you asked.
“since before i knew what astrophysics even was,” he said, his tone stripped of its usual bravado.
he lifted the guitar with a familiarity that made your chest tighten. his fingers slid along the strings, not producing sound, but tracing something like memory.
“this is what i actually want,” he said, eyes fixed on the instrument. “not the research, not the expectations, not the future everyone keeps planning for me.”
you stepped closer, studying the tension in his shoulders. “then why aren’t you doing it?”
he let out a breath that seemed to carry years of pressure. “because wanting something doesn’t mean it’s possible.”
you didn’t even think before responding. “that’s rubbish.”
he finally looked at you, and for the first time, his expression wasn’t smug or amused or performative. it was uncertain, almost vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to confirm that he wasn’t being ridiculous.
“yeah?” he said quietly. “and what do you reckon i should do?”
you nodded toward the guitar. “start there.”
── six strings: the rise ⟢ ・⸝⸝
fame meant freedom to satoru gojo -- and he's chased that for years, the kind he only reached because you were the one who told him his music wasn’t a distraction but a direction.
you were the first person who treated his playing like something worth taking seriously. you listened to every rough demo, every late‑night recording, every half‑finished idea he sent you with a mix of nerves and hope. you told him he had something rare, something that deserved a stage, and your belief became the foundation he built the rest of his life on.
the band formed around him with a sense of inevitability. suguru geto stepped in as their vocalist, his voice carrying a raspy, seductive sensitivity that cut through any room and held attention without effort. ieiri shoko joined on drums, grounding their sound with a steady, deliberate rhythm that shaped every track. satoru’s guitar threaded through it all, distinct and controlled, the element that gave their music its identity.
they called themselves the six strings, a name that stuck quickly and spread even faster. their first major release, robbers, hit the scene with a unsettling, restless energy that caught listeners off guard. the intro sending chills down listeners spines and it climbed charts with surprising speed, appearing on radio rotations, festival lineups, and playlists across the country. people connected with the intensity of geto's vocals and the precision in satoru’s guitar, and the band’s following grew almost overnight.
fallingforyou pushed them further. the track carried a silent tension, and audiences latched onto it instantly. it became the song people played on repeat, the one fans recorded covers of, the one that turned the six strings from rising artists into a band everyone recognised.
then heartout arrived, and everything accelerated. the song exploded across social media, festival crowds screamed the lyrics back at them, and ticket sales for their tour vanished within minutes. journalists compared them to the biggest acts of the decade. critics praised their cohesion, their sound, their presence. the band’s name appeared everywhere -- billboards, magazines, late‑night shows, international festival posters.
concerts became events. fans queued overnight, traded bootleg recordings, and filled venues with an energy that felt electric. shoko commanded the stage with ease, geto drove the rhythm with precision, and satoru played with a focus that drew every eye in the room. he became the face of a new generation of guitarists because he wasn't someone who didn’t just perform but shaped the entire atmosphere of a song.
the six strings were a listers, they were the band everyone talked about, the band shaping the sound of the moment, the band that seemed to rise out of nowhere and take over everything. and at the centre of it all stood satoru gojo, living the life you once told him he deserved.
── six strings: about you ⟢ ・⸝⸝
on february 14th, six strings dropped a song called ‘about you’ with an album announcement following later that may. if six strings were popular before, then the release of ‘about you’ lead them straight to music royalty status. it was everywhere yet never got over played, even after a month of constant media attention to the song the hype never died down. it was a timeless piece, slowly becoming a classic. everyone wanted to know what the song was about, more so who?
꒰ ･ a clip from an interview ｡ﾟ ꒱
interviewer: why are you called ‘six’ strings when there are only three of you?
geto: the extra three came from when i f#cked your mum last night-
shoko: it just sounded cool, can we not sound cool? why does everything have to have this deep meaning…we’re six strings because it sounds cool!
gojo: saturn is the sixth the planet…when i was younger someone special to me loved saturn and space the way i loved music and guitar. the guitar has six strings…when i came to that revelation it only made sense to call us the six strings. an ode to the instrument and the person who- uh- six strings because of the instrument.
geto rolls his eyes and sighs, just then a group of girls cheer in the audience just at his mere existence. shoko is sitting there unbothered, fidgeting with the cigarette pack in her lap which she’s been restrained from opening. gojo however bites the inside of his cheek, shocked at himself for stuttering when answering such a clear question with an even clearer answer.
you’re back in your room and the only light comes from your desk lamp, warm and soft, pooling over your physics notes and the half‑finished assignment that’s been draining your soul since dinner. the equations stretch across the page like they’re mocking you, each line a reminder that your life now revolves around deadlines and problem sets instead of guitar strings and half‑baked dreams in someone’s mum’s garage.
it’s almost comical when you think about it. a few years ago, you and gojo were sitting on the floor arguing over which formula applied to a projectile motion question, both of you waving pencils like weapons and insisting the other was catastrophically wrong. now you’re not even sure what he talks about anymore.
maybe he’s debating which toner keeps his hair from going brassy under stage lights?
maybe he’s deciding which part of the chorus is the optimal moment to stick his tongue out for maximum crowd hysteria?
the hater in you cringes at the theatrics, at the glitter, at the persona he’s built like a second skin.
but beneath all that, there’s an admiration you can’t quite shake. because you know, better than anyone, that this version of him isn’t fake. it’s loud and messy and dramatic, sure, but it’s also the truest he’s ever been. the same ambition that used to spill out of him in that cramped garage. the same dorky enthusiasm that made him bounce on his toes when he figured out a new chord. the same spark, the same damn thing that made your heart surrender long before you were ready to admit it.
you finally close your laptop, the click shut sounding like victory after hours of mental warfare. you stretch your arms above your head, feeling every muscle complain, and wander into the bathroom to start getting unready. the mirror greets you with tired eyes and smudged mascara, a reminder that you’ve lived several lifetimes in one day. you tie your hair back, reach for your cleanser, and let the warm water run over your hands.
just as you’re about to wash your face, your phone buzzes sharply against the counter, one of those vibrations that feels urgent, like the device itself is panicking.
you freeze, water dripping from your fingers.
another buzz, louder this time, rattling against the porcelain.
you grab it, thumb swiping across the screen, and your best friend’s name flashes at you, followed by a message typed with the kind of ominous energy only she possesses:
“answer your phone. i’m calling.”
before you can even process it, the screen lights up again-- this time with an incoming call. you sigh, wipe your wet hands on your pyjama pants, and pick up.
“what,” you say, not even trying to hide the exhaustion.
your friend doesn’t bother with hello. “okay, don’t freak out, but i just scored glastonbury tickets.”
“from that guy i’m hooking up with,” she continues breezily, like this is the most normal sentence in the world. “he had extras. like, actual passes. not the fake ones that get you arrested.”
you stare at your reflection, cleanser still foaming in your hand. “you’re joking.”
“i never joke about free festival tickets,” she says, dead serious. “pack a bag. we’re going.”
you let out a breath that’s half‑laugh, half‑groan, the absurdity of it all settling over you. glastonbury. the band. the boy you’ve spent years trying not to think about. the world you left behind.
and now it’s knocking on your door again, loud and impossible to ignore.
“you in?” she asks, voice buzzing with excitement.
your heart thuds once, hard.
you don’t answer and cut the call. mainly because your friend knows you all too well and that your answer is yes.
── first live perfromance of 'about you'⟢ ・⸝⸝
the crowd forms, six strings are headlining glastonbury, an even higher career high from everything they achieved with their first EP. this was massive, performing the most popular song of the moment in one of the most renowned festivals. this is what dreams are made of, baby!
꒰ ･ back stage: 3 hours before going on stage ｡ﾟ ꒱
shoko: you don't think your hair gel is a bit excessive, suguru?
geto: i think you're a bit jealous i'm on girls pinterest boards for hair inspiration and not you. and for the record, i don't use gel...i use kerastase hair serum.
shoko elbows him, geto whincing even before her elbow reaches his crotch.
shoko: for the record i don't give a f#ck about being on anyones pinterest board, i myself am the pinterest board. and i think you're forgetting there was only one memeber in our band not invited to paris fashion week and it wasn't me or toru.
gojo is fidgeting with his guitar strings and let's out a deep chuckle.
geto: why am i even arguing with you? i am supposed to be saving my voice for our performance in a bit.
shoko: funny way to accept defeat.
gojo walks up to the both of them. doing little excited jumps and shaking his hands to get rid of his nerves.
shoko: eww, i don't want to ever see a 6'5, grown man ever do something like that...
gojo tilts his head, going up to shoko to condescendingly squish her cheeks.
gojo: whatever you say...and i'm not in the mood to argue so say whatever you want...we have the number one song in the world, we're young, we're talented, and we're headlining f#cking glastonbury! we're on top of the worlddddd
this gets geto and shoko to smile, both shaking their heads at gojo's cheerful antics.
shoko: excited to finally tell people who 'about you' is about?
gojo sitffens, usually youthful blue eyes turning dull, perssing his lips together.
gojo: it's not about anyone...it's just a concept i came up with in the middle of the night.
gojo looks to geto for support, but he throws his hands up and points to the fact he can't speak because he's saving his voice. shoko places a friendly hand on gojo.
shoko: the only way we're going to make this performance iconic is if we give the people what they want, and what they want is answers to what this ethereal yearning anthem is actually about.
gojo: i told you it's not about anyone.
shoko sighs and goes to put on her jewellery, leaving gojo to his own devices. it wasn’t rocket science for them two to figure out all these lyrics from fallingforyou to now about you are all about the same girl who used to accompany them all when they would practice.
── ⟢ glastonbury, 30 minutes before set・⸝⸝
thirty minutes to glastonbury and the festival feels like it’s conspiring against you, every path you take folding back into the same heaving artery of bodies moving toward the main stage, as if the entire place has decided you need to confront the one thing you’ve spent years pretending you’d outgrown. the air is thick with unpleasant beer breath and the sweet burn of incense, and the sky is doing that smug late‑afternoon shimmer where everything looks dipped in gold, which would be lovely if it didn’t make every memory of him feel more brighter, harder to ignore.
your friend is half‑dragging you, half‑floating through the crowd, her wristbands clacking together like she’s wearing festival‑issued handcuffs, and you keep trying to slow her down with increasingly desperate distractions. you linger at a stall selling ethically questionable henna, you pretend to be fascinated by a man balancing on a slackline, you even stop to examine a pair of sunglasses shaped like fried eggs, but she’s immune to every tactic, buzzing with the kind of excitement that makes her impossible to deter. she keeps talking about how this is a once‑in‑a‑lifetime moment, how six strings are about to rewrite history, how you’ll regret it forever if you miss even a second of their set, and you nod along even though your stomach is twisting itself into a sailor’s knot.
the bass from the previous act rolls across the field in slow, heavy waves, vibrating through the soles of your shoes and up your spine, and you can’t help thinking about the nights you spent sitting cross‑legged on the floor of gojo’s mum’s garage, watching him fiddle with pedals and strings like he was trying to coax the universe into tune. you remember the way he’d grin at you-- wide, reckless, too bright for the dim little room, and how you’d pretend you weren’t melting under it. you remember geto humming half‑finished melodies, shoko tapping out rhythms on empty paint cans, all of them dreaming out loud about stages like this one while you tried not to imagine what would happen when those dreams carried them somewhere you couldn’t follow.
you try to shake it off, but the universe is committed to the bit. the crowd shifts, and suddenly you’re staring straight at a massive screen looping behind‑the‑scenes clips of the band: geto adjusting his mic with that lazy confidence, shoko spinning a drumstick between her fingers, and gojo...god, gojo laughing at something off‑camera, head thrown back, hair a mess of white‑blond chaos that somehow still looks intentional. the sight hits you like a punch, devastating, and you look away so quickly you nearly collide with a girl wearing angel wings made of tinsel.
your friend squeezes your hand, oblivious to the way your pulse jumps.
“we’re close,” she says, weaving you deeper into the crowd until you’re swallowed by a sea of glitter, sweat, and anticipation. the stage looms ahead, enormous and electric, framed by towers of lights that flicker like they’re warming up to blind you. the countdown clock is projected across the screens, each second slipping away with the smug inevitability of fate.
you tell yourself you’re fine, that you’re just another face in the crowd, that he won’t see you, won’t think of you, won’t feel that old gravity tugging at the edges of his composure. but then the lights dim, the field of people finally goes silent, and the first soft hum of the opening synth drifts across the air like a ghost brushing past your shoulder. the crowd erupts, a tidal wave of sound that rattles your ribs, and you lift your head despite every instinct screaming at you to look anywhere else.
the stage blooms in blue light.
the silhouette of his guitar is unmistakable.
and in that suspended moment, caught between the past you ran from and the present you’ve stumbled into -- you realise you’ve spent years avoiding a story that was always going to find you again.
── ⟢ flashback: university first year・⸝⸝
you step inside just in time to see geto pacing like a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here, his hair tied back messily, his jaw tight. shoko is slouched over her drum kit, tapping the rim with a stick in a way that feels less like rhythm and more like a threat. gojo stands in the middle of the room, guitar hanging off him like it’s personally offended him, shoulders hunched in a way you’ve never seen before.
you lift the bag in your hand, the plastic rustling with the weight of your peace offering-- pocky, umaibo, kinoko no yama, those weirdly addictive calbee prawn chips, a couple of ramune bottles clinking together like they’re cheering you on. the smell of strawberry and seaweed hits the air, and shoko’s head snaps up like she’s been summoned by a deity.
“oh thank god,” she mutters, abandoning her sticks to rummage through the bag before you’ve even set it down properly. “i was about five minutes away from committing a crime.”
geto stops pacing long enough to take a ramune, popping the marble with a sigh that sounds like relief and despair at the same time. “he keeps missing the timing,” he says, gesturing at gojo like he’s presenting evidence in court. “and then he says he’s not missing the timing, which is somehow worse.”
gojo bristles, cheeks pink, fingers tightening around the guitar neck. “i’m not missing it, you’re just counting weird.”
“i’m counting in four-four,” geto deadpans. “the most normal, simple, time signature known to man.”
shoko snorts, mouth full of pocky. “toru, babe, you’re playing like you’re trying to summon a demon.”
gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face, and for a moment the room feels too small for his frustration, too small for the dream he’s trying to force into shape. geto and shoko exchange a look and then they’re grabbing their things, muttering something about vending machines and fresh air as they slip out the door.
the room is just know you two, the leftover unspoken tension settling like dust that geto and shoko left behind. gojo stands there, staring at the floor, shoulders still tight, breath shallow. you walk over slowly, the crinkle of snack wrappers the only sound between you. when you reach him, you lift your hands and cup his face, palms warm against his flushed cheeks.
he startles a little, eyes flicking up to yours -- blue, bright, uncertain in a way that makes your chest ache.
“hey,” you say, voice low, steady, threading through the room like a melody meant only for him. “you’re fine. you’re more than fine. you just need to breathe.”
his lashes flutter, the tension in his jaw easing under your thumbs. he leans into your touch without meaning to, like gravity’s doing the work for him.
“i’m trying,” he murmurs, the words small, he is so embarrassed. “i just… i don’t want to hold them back.”
you shake your head, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. “you’re not holding anyone back. you’re going to be the biggest star in the world, toru. you just have to keep going.”
the words land softly but deeply, sinking into him like they’ve been waiting for a place to root. his breath catches, something bright flickering behind his eyes. hope, belief, the beginning of something enormous.
he smiles then, slow and crooked, the kind of smile that could light up a stage long before he ever steps onto one.
“you really think so?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“i know so,” you answer, and for a moment you can feel his heartbeat and yours sync up.
gojo steps up to the mic, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between the crowd and his bandmates as if either one might save him. geto’s staring at him with a confused half‑frown, one hand hovering near his own mic like he’s ready to yank it back. shoko’s frozen mid‑lean over her drums, her expression somewhere between what is he doing and this better not ruin my eyeliner.
the crowd screams anyway, loud and wild, because they think this is part of the show. because they don’t know he’s improvising. because they don’t know he’s seconds away from saying something he’s avoided for years.
he grips the mic with both hands, knuckles white, and clears his throat. the sound echoes across the field, sharp and awkward. he winces. shoko winces. geto winces harder.
but he doesn’t step back.
he takes a breath. slow, shaky, a metaphor for it dragging his whole past up with it, and then he starts talking.
“people change you,” he says, voice rough but steady enough to carry. “not in some big dramatic way like in those sappy movies. sometimes it’s just… one moment. one sentence. one person who looks at you like you’re capable of more than you think.”
the crowd quiets, leaning in.
“and when someone believes in you like that,” he continues, eyes fixed somewhere far past the lights, “it sticks. even when life moves on. even when you do. even when you’re trying really hard to pretend it doesn’t matter anymore.”
geto’s eyebrows shoot up. shoko’s mouth falls open a little. neither of them expected this.
gojo swallows, thumb brushing the mic like he’s grounding himself. “i wouldn’t be here without that. without… someone who told me to keep going when i was ready to quit. someone who said i could be something. someone who meant it.”
the crowd murmurs, everyone have their phones pulled out and recording by now.
he lets out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. “so before we play this next song… i just wanted to say that. that sometimes the right person shows up at the right time, and it changes everything.”
he pauses, chest rising and falling, the truth sitting heavy in the air.
“and this song is for them.”
and gojo stands there, heart pounding, knowing he’s just crossed a line he can’t uncross.
shoko’s sticks hover above the snare, her whole body coiled with the clean, sharp focus she only gets right before a song starts. she gives the band a quick look, geto steady, gojo wired like a live wire, and then she counts them in, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.
the lights shift, the synth swells, and the opening chords of about you are seconds from breaking open across glastonbury. geto steps forward, ready to sing the first line, breath already drawn, posture relaxed because of all the hours he spent practising.
but gojo moves before the sound even hits the air.
it’s quick. messy, instinctive, almost clumsy. he reaches out and grabs the mic stand with one hand, dragging it toward himself so abruptly that geto actually stumbles a half‑step, eyes wide with shock. shoko’s sticks freeze mid‑air, her mouth parting in disbelief. not again.
the crowd screams, thinking it’s part of the show, but the band knows better. gojo’s chest is rising too fast. his fingers are shaking. his eyes are locked on the crowd like he’s searching for one face in a sea of thousands.
the backing track still playing, but the entire field goes still.
gojo leans into the mic, breath catching once in his throat before he forces the words out-- loud, clear, and so direct it slices through the night like a blade.
the crowd erupts into confused cheers, but he doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile, doesn’t play it off. he tightens his grip on the mic, knuckles white, and says it again. slower this time, like he wants to make sure the right person hears it.
geto’s jaw drops. shoko actually nearly drops a stick, the clatter swallowed by the noise of fifty thousand people losing their minds.
and then gojo says the thing he’s been holding in his chest for years, the thing he swore he’d never say out loud, the thing that feels too big for a stage and too raw for a crowd this size.
the field explodes-- screams, gasps, hands thrown into the air-- but gojo doesn’t move. he stands there in the middle of the chaos he just created, breathing hard, eyes shining under the stage lights, looking like a man who’s finally stopped running.
but it’s nothing compared to the way your chest caves in when gojo’s voice cuts through it. the words hit clean and direct, no metaphor, no shield, just truth thrown into the night like he’s daring the world to catch it.
this is about you. you know who you are. i love you.
your best friend’s head snaps toward you so fast her earrings nearly fly off. her eyes are huge, glitter catching the stage lights, and she looks at you like she’s watching a plot twist she’s been waiting seven years for. her mouth opens, closes, opens again--no sound, just pure shock .
you don’t look back at her. you can’t. your eyes are glued to the stage, to the tall figure standing under the lights like he’s been carved out of them, shoulders tight, chest rising too fast, fingers still wrapped around the mic stand like he’s holding onto something that might slip away.
your heart drops. it plummets-- heavy, sudden, like it’s falling through every version of your life where you and him were still in the same orbit.
the crowd is losing its mind, people grabbing each other, screaming, filming, crying, but all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears and the faint echo of a rehearsal room years ago, when he could barely look you in the eye without turning pink.
your friend grabs your arm, nails digging in. “that-- that’s--” she tries to shout over the noise, but the words dissolve before they reach you.
because you’re staring at him, and he’s staring at nothing.
he’s not scanning the crowd.
he’s not searching for a face.
he’s not looking for you.
he doesn’t know you’re here.
you’re one person in a sea of thousands, swallowed by lights and smoke and the sheer scale of the world he’s built for himself. he’s on a stage that belongs to legends, and you’re standing in the mud with a plastic cup of cheap cider, heart in your throat, listening to a confession meant for a ghost version of you he’s been carrying around.
the band launches into the opening chords of about you, the sound swelling, bright and aching. geto steps in, voice steady, shoko’s drums hit like thunder, and gojo bows his head over his guitar, fingers moving with a confidence he didn’t have back then.
you watch him, this man who used to trip over his own amp cables, who used to ask you if his hair looked stupid, who used to grin at you like you were the only person in the room. and you realise how far away he is now. how far you’ve drifted. how far he’s climbed.
you’re still supporting him, still cheering for him, still loving him in that quiet, private way that doesn’t ask for anything back.
but you’re not part of his world anymore, you’re part of the crowd.
and he’s part of the sky.
the song ends, the lights flare, and the distance between you stretches out.
bittersweet doesn’t even begin to cover it.
an: formal apology for a) making t@kumi as geto, b) for not having a happy ending, because this was originally an angsty headcanon but then this storyy came to me. i love the 1975 sm, i just hope there is someone out there who loves jjk and 75’ and is the perfect target audience for this. oki, baiiii
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