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TRACK 01, CARAMEL.

❤︎ SYNOPSIS: suguru getō never sings—no, that’s satoru’s thing. singing on a stage is nerve wracking, and not the good kind—it slicks his palms with sweat and makes his heart hammer behind his guitar. but, he does want to sing this one song, if only to tell his bandmates how he feels. (he won’t, otherwise.)

❤︎ CONTENT: band!au, getō-centric, lots of satosugu bc i have a problem, drummer!chōsō, lead singer/lead guitarist!gojo, rhythm guitar!getō, bassist!y/n, hurt/comfort, very angsty, needles (at home piercings), depression and insomnia mentions, anxiety, unexplained mental health thingy, that tbh i don’t rlly want to name bc i don’t need to and idk i j b writing fr. 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.

❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: this was not supposed to be this angsty istg. and, maybe it's also a little unorganized. i have a lot to say. any guesses for the next song? (@kamislop, writing this made me lose my mind. should’ve had you beta read.)

♫ NOW PLAYING: caramel, sleep token.

read on ao3 | 16k words | masterlist.

SATORU, LIKE ALWAYS, opens the song.

It’s soft and echoey—a distorted marimba—and while he huffs when he switches his usual electric guitar for a keyboard, (like the music you make nowadays doesn’t require it more often than not), he does so while buzzing with a new form of excitement.

But, you’re not paying attention to Satoru, as much as he’d probably like you to—not like the rest of the audience, who sway over the front barricades with hearts in their eyes in anticipation of an unreleased track. The sweat that sticks to your skin is a clammy reminder of how long you four have been melting in the limelight, and just like the Wicked Witch of the West, you try your best to hold your bones together and perform.

(But, then you think that’s is a poor analogy, that she melted and she died, and you can’t afford to fold like the witch before you—not now.)

If they knew what was coming, they’d be watching Suguru, too.

Suguru refused to move the usual formation, starves you, despite your requests—despite your begging, groveling, praying—and still insists on being on Satoru’s right. Satoru didn’t mind, of course, the bastard.

There’s this trend going around Twitter, #TeamSatoru vs #TeamSuguru. As their bandmate, and someone with the displeasure of interacting with Satoru Gojō every day, you’re extremely biased.

Heart eyes shift right when a sharp and distinctive exhale, one that doesn’t belong to your lead singer, fills the arena.

“Count me out like sovereigns—”

The rest of the line is swallowed by shrill screams. You wince, adjusting your earpiece in a futile attempt to stay on beat—all you can hear are millions satisfying their animalistic urge to scream in the only space that’s socially acceptable. You don’t need to come in until the chorus, so you and your bass have time to linger and drift. Regardless, you scramble to listen to the song you’ve heard enough to know the lyrics by heart, and swim.

The girls along the barricade dissolve under the heated liquid honey of Suguru Getō’s voice. (You keep talking about the fangirls—the band’s demographic is more diverse than that, but they’re aggressive, and vicious, and their parents have money, so they’re always in the front row.) It’s extremely unfair, actually—how someone can walk around with such power at their fingertips but refuse to use it—makes you want to hit him over it, actually. You have, actually.

So, you swim to the best of your ability. The best that you’ll allow—just enough not to drown.

Chōsō comes in on the drums.

PART I — INTRICATELY SYMBOLIC INTRODUCTIONS.

Right foot in the roses, left foot on a landmine—

“Guys, guys—”

You shoulder the home studio’s heavy door open so hard the door bounces against the wall with a thud, but you don’t feel a thing. No, you don’t feel shit, because you have fucking news—

“Suguru can sing.”

Because, see, if you ask the man—he’ll say he can’t. No, the only thing he can do is scream, and he can do it really well, actually, but never ask him to sing. He will not. But, you’ve had your suspicions.

Suguru has a really, really nice voice—put you to sleep kind of nice. It’s the voice that sounds polished and hard-won, like a pearl turned by human hands, as dark and deep and smooth as the bottom of the ocean. Like he could sing lullabies for a living, and start a cult by putting insomniacs to bed.

With this knowledge, Satoru scoffs, spinning in his ergonomic chair to place his acoustic guitar against the wall.

“Yeah, right,” the brightest, most annoying shade of blue goes rolling behind black sunglasses, glinting in the dim orange lighting put in just for him, and he smiles at you like you’re stupid. With a fold his arms and tilt of his head, he coos, “Did he sing for you, Princess?”

“Chōsō,” you turn to your other bandmate—the better bandmate—who lounges in his favorite spot like a cat, nestled into a divot in the leather couch that’s a little more worn down than the rest. Your fingers round into a fist and sing, “I’m going to punch him.”

“I—Please don’t do that,” Chōsō rushes to sit up, ever gullible. Do you want to? Yes. You won’t, though—not until Satoru gives you a good enough reason. You’ve been waiting.

“Ooh, yeah, maybe stick to bass—I’m not sure how far you’ll get with the whole singing thing,” Satoru hisses, and gestures to you, vaguely and with an open palm. You chuck a half-empty water bottle at his head, and it bonks him right on the nose, just below the bridge of his glasses. Satoru rubs at it with a small ‘ow.’

“So, Suguru?” Chōsō reminds the room.

“Right,” you clap both hands together, and aim fingertips at your preferred bandmate. (A fucking chicken is a preferred bandmate compared to Satoru fucking Gojō.) “Yeah, I heard him in the shower.”

“Creep,” Satoru says under a cough, and wow, shut the fuck up?

“Keep writing your pop song, loser,” you pull at the bottom of your eye and stick a tongue out, taking a seat next to Chōsō. Preferred-bandmate-Chōsō. Satoru grumbles, but you know that’s what he’s doing from the state of his hair and the crumpled paper that surrounds his space on the desk. And the floor. The trashcan is full and ready for recycling.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, flipping you off as he spins in his chair, and returns to the desk.

“Maybe one day, when your Incel Era is over.”

Satoru knows Suguru can sing. Fucking obviously, he can sing—but you needed to shut the fuck up, so.

Suguru had come to him a few days ago…with an idea…and Satoru was on board until he wasn’t.

Wear me out like Prada, devil in my detail—

“I wanna do this one.”

Suguru looks nervous, nibbling at the left corner of his bottom lip and swaying with unused energy in the doorway of their home studio—but, he also looks determined, eyes burning straight through Satoru and into the computer screen behind him. Can Suguru sing? Yes. Does Suguru sing? No.

Satoru feels like this is a prank.

Like this is a bit, some form of sarcasm that he hasn’t been able to wrap his sheltered brain around quite yet. He’s known Suguru since college, when Satoru was still a classical pianist and Suguru was a weird, over-pierced band kid on his third band. Times have changed since then, they have changed since then—but some things about people are immovable, pillars in the sand on the beach, the measures on a staff, and Satoru, stupidly, thought that this was one of those things.

“Are you sure?”

Because, he doesn’t look sure.

“Do you…” Suguru averts his eyes, coughs. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

Satoru softens—he’s given no choice—and shifts in his chair. Suguru refuses to sit down in the open seat next to him, loitering by the doorway.

“No,” he shakes his head, because truly, he doesn’t, it’s just…

Suguru singing was kind of, like, a them thing?

It’s selfish—Satoru knows it’s selfish, but he’s a selfish guy, and has come to terms with that—and it started in college. Well. A lot started in college, but like—also this specific thing. Suguru singing for him.

While Suguru and Satoru are very much the same, they’re very different. They’re both insanely good at what they do, the best, the strongest—but Suguru likes Hereditary, Satoru likes Trolls. Suguru likes bitter, Satoru likes sweet. Suguru sleeps too much, and Satoru sleeps too little.

It’s not—it’s stupid, really. Satoru can’t turn his brain off, doesn’t know how. He just works, and works, and passes out when he’s tired, and works some more. He’s never had the luxury of a 9-5, of a schedule, of clocking in and clocking out and spending free weekends with friends. No, it’s always create, create, create.

(Suguru’s voice did help, though. Satoru would record him sometimes. Like a creep.)

His parents had dreams and aspirations. For themselves, of course, but those dreams were attained with relative ease, because his parents are fucking career powerhouses, building their own company from the ground up into one of the most successful—and capitalistic—companies to date. Frankly, Satoru doesn’t give a shit, but they’re his parents, and he’ll be compared to them no matter what.

He played a plethora of instruments growing up—violin, cello, the fucking bassoon—but one stuck, one caught the public eye by the throat and choked it out until it paid attention. Because, Satoru Gojō was a prodigy when it came to the piano.

By age twelve, he was performing for Vienna Philharmonic.

(Which, in German, is Weiner Philharmoniker, and that continues to tickle him to this day.)

It took some wrangling for his parents to allow him the freedom of college—which, is aggressively modern for them, but with his established level of fame, and the internet, he didn’t need it. But, Satoru wanted to be normal, dammit. Being homeschooled for most of his life didn’t help him fit in. Nor did the fame.

He would’ve dropped out of Jujutsu University if he didn’t find Suguru in a theatre in junior year.

Whoever the fuck is belting in Satoru’s sacred space needs to shut the fuck up, and leave.

Satoru has no problem with the experimental arts, has no problem with people figuring themselves out, or whatever—but singing alone and acapella, in the dark, in an empty chamber, is dramatic as fuck, and so is the strangers song choice: Lithium by Evanescence, transposed to fit his voice. Fucking emo.

Satoru knows that song because he happens to have excellent and diverse taste in music. Obviously.

The Stranger’s voice isn’t bad—a little unrefined, but not horrid, nothing a few music lessons couldn’t fix. Which begets the question, why is he here, in Satoru’s sacred practice space, in the abandoned theatre of Tengen Hall that only Satoru knows about?

And then, he screams, screamo-sings, whatever it’s called—which isn’t even in the song—and Satoru groans. It’s not his fault. He’s severely behind schedule, and now this stranger is screaming. Digging a knuckle into his ear like it’ll soothe the oncoming pressure of a headache, Satoru snaps.

“Oh my God, shut up!”

The Stranger does. He shuts up in the way that someone does when they get startled, when someone thinks they’re alone and they’re not. Which is his fucking fault, because it’s pitch black in here, and he must’ve had his eyes closed if he didn’t see the evening light spill through the door Satoru entered.

Satoru walks forward, and his knees hit a row of chairs. He almost topples over.

“How the fuck can you see in here?” He huffs, patting his pockets for his phone. In his defense, he usually comes right after class, when stained glass is glowing from the evening sun, so maneuvering in a dark theatre isn’t exactly something he’s used to. The breaker is behind the stage, in the wings, but he feels like this theatre should just have normal fucking lights.

(Yes, whatever, it’s abandoned, shut the fuck up—)

At this point, he feels like he’s talking to a ghost—whoever is there is silent, possibly gone, possibly never existed in the first place. Possibly borne out of sleep deprivation and classic collegiate burnout.

“Um,” Satoru swallows, tapping his phone flashlight on. He can’t see the stage, only vague shapes of it and what’s immediately in front of him—which are…chairs. He curves his body into the aisle, missing it by a grand total of two seats. Which, is a little embarrassing, and ideally, the ghost didn’t see that. “Hello?”

When Satoru gets nothing, a chill runs down his spine. But, Satoru Gojō doesn’t believe in superstitions, so he tries it again, walking closer:

“Hello? Mr. Ghost?”

The Stranger on stage snorts. “Not a ghost.”

“Okay. Cool, cool,” Satoru hems, waddling down the aisle carefully, in case said not-ghost decides to jump out and scare him. Or, in case he falls into the pit.

He manages to find the stairs to the stage and tries his hardest to walk upright, free hand gracing the wall until it becomes black curtain. Shoving the curtain aside, he takes its place and fiddles with the breaker.

“I don’t know if you should be doing that,” the stranger grunts. Satoru just rolls his eyes, and tugs at something big and important looking.

It works—the theatre whirrs to life. Three chandeliers that decorate an ornate ceiling flicker on with resistance, followed by the canned lights above the entry way and the stage. And, sat on the edge of said stage—

There is a guy. That, Satoru can confirm.

“See?” The Stranger smiles, but it’s wobbly with nerves. He lifts just as wobbly hands to chest height, and flip them over—proof of his tangibility. “Not a ghost.”

“Nope, but you are somebody, so,” Satoru adjusts his crossed arms to chuck a thumb to the entrance, “Get out.”

“Um,” the Stranger chuckles, more to himself, like what Satoru just said was cute, but, “What?”

“Get out,” Satoru over-enunciates. It’s been one of those days—a long one, where the mask doesn’t fit quite right, doesn’t last quite long enough—and frankly, Satoru’s tired. Too tired to be polite to a random, that’s for sure. (Not that he’s really that polite anyway, but he’s decent for the sake of the family image, yadda yadda.) “I practice here.”

Another laugh, one that shifts the loose hair spilling out of the Stranger’s messy bun, and he finally looks Satoru’s way. Satoru doesn’t know what he was expecting—maybe something polite, something sweet, something that looks weird sat atop broad shoulders—but the Stranger levels him with a simple look. A look he’d get a more often, if he had a lot less money.

“Do you own the building?”

“No,” Satoru huffs, rolling his neck. “My dad’s on the board of directors, though.”

The Stranger just rolls his eyes, resting his weight on a hand as he decides that something on the ceiling is worthy more attention than Satoru fucking Gojō.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

Satoru feels the need to gather himself. Like, if he had pearls, he’d hold them, and stick out a stiff index finger at the man with no name and scream, ‘Witch!’ He bristles, instead.

“Do you even know who I am?”

And, honestly—Satoru didn’t mean it like that. He meant it in a ‘do you hate me because you know i’m rich and famous and get bitches for real’ way, so maybe he did mean it like that, but like, not in a bad way.

The Stranger looks at him, blinks twice with a pained look. Like he’s really trying to remember, really rubbing those two brain cells of his together in hopes they’ll find some friction.

“…No? Have we met before?”

Satoru’s sense of the world shatters. Just a little bit.

He patches it back together pretty quick—because, this guy might not even be a music major. Yeah, he can sing or whatever—so can Satoru, it’s not that fucking hard—but he could definitely be like…an art therapy major. Or an digital media major. Satoru doesn’t know, he doesn’t pay attention to other arts. But, the guy has to be, because everyone knows Satoru. The LA Times knows Satoru, and he’s only been there, like, four times.

“What’s your major?” Satoru asks, completely disregarding his question. It’s not even important, anymore.

And, maybe, Satoru was setting himself up for failure.

“Music, with a concentration in guitar,” the Stranger says, craning his neck as Satoru walks closer, until he’s standing over his sitting figure with hands on his hips. “…Why.”

Guitar. Guitar?

He must not be classically trained, then. Of course.

But…LA Times isn’t classically trained, either.

“Well, get out, Guitar,” Satoru huffs. Tired of looking at the Strangers ugly face, he stomps over to the grand piano in the corner of the stage, white Yamaha CFX, and shoulders his bag next to the bench. “You’re probably really shit at it. You probably go on Ultimate Guitar instead of reading sheet music.”

The stranger hums at that with a fake thoughtfulness, nodding at the curtains like they’re the ones talking. And Satoru keeps rambling, because he rambles when he feels things, and right now, he feels like the stranger is annoying the shit out of him. The air in the cushioned bench deflates when he sits. He scoots the chair forward with his body on it, and metal legs squeal against the peeling wooden floor. It makes him cringe, but he doesn’t care—he’s got shit to do.

“You probably only listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers and Nirvana and genuinely call yourself ‘Punk Rock.’ You probably hate music theory—”

“—Who likes music theory?—”

“—and couldn’t even play a scale with a gun to your head. You’re probably fucking—fucking bad at whatever the fuck you do, and you can’t sing for your life, so get the fuck out.”

Satoru’s a little winded. Probably a little red.

The Stranger just blinks over his shoulder in return.

“…Are you done?”

“Leave!”

The Stranger blinks again.

“This isn’t the time you’re usually here.”

Satoru lifts the fallboard from the piano, and slams his forehead into the keys.

“You think it’s a bad idea,” Suguru decides for him. Satoru revives himself to shake his head vehemently, forcing his way into the present, to sit up properly, and damn, he’s lowkey tired.

“No—no,” Satoru says, who’s not really good in the reassurance business—the whole emotion business, really—but it always seems to be good enough for Suguru. “I’m just impressed you want to! You know I’m down to share a little bit of the spotlight.”

Suguru seems to loosen at that, if just a little. Satoru tries again.

“Plus, the fans would love it. They eat up anything you write, forget about sing, good God, could you imagine? We’d need, like, double—no, triple—the security, probably.”

While he’s busy listing off on his fingers, Suguru finally assumes the open chair next to him. “Yeah…that’s kind of what I’m worried about.”

“Okay,” Satoru scoffs, “I said you’re good, not great. That’s reserved for me.”

And, in all honesty, that’s a complete lie—Suguru is great. The best. Better than Satoru, but he doesn’t have to know that. There’s a lot he doesn’t have to know.

Suguru laughs again, but it’s not the one from earlier. It’s an awkward, stilted laugh, a laugh that betrays itself with too much effort—the laugh, Satoru remembers, from when they first met. He hates it, always putting a bitter taste in his mouth.

“That’s—no, I just,” Suguru swallows, and then, Satoru swallows. They don’t do the whole emotion gambit, not unless one of them needs it enough to willingly risk their ego. And, Suguru does—need it enough. That doesn’t mean Satoru doesn’t get nervous. He gets so nervous, actually, because people’s emotions are like glass, and Satoru’s a clumsy motherfucker. Especially when he’s trying to be careful. But, he will be so, so careful. He’ll stop breathing. For Suguru.

Anyways—

“Y’know,” Suguru shrugs, scratches the back of his head, “the whole ‘center stage’ shit just—isn’t…isn’t my thing, so—”

“Do you want it to be?” Satoru swivels his chair to face his best friend. This is the type of conversation he should be facing him for, right?

“No,” Suguru says through a breath of anxious air, eyebrows knitting as his head sways left. “I don—I like making music, I like that people like that music, I just…”

Suguru swallows again, and Satoru waits.

“I wanna—I wanna go to the gym,” his voice cracks, and the hand on his leg tightens into a fist, “or the mall or something, and not get photographed at, like, my absolute worst, you know?”

Suguru laughs it off, but Satoru knows he hates it. The whole publicity side of things.

Also, he wants to yell, wants to shake Suguru dizzy until he realizes that he’s, in fact, always a hot ass bitch. But, that’s not what this conversation is about, so Satoru’s hands twitch in his lap instead, useless.

“And um, maybe it’s a little conceited, y’know, to be worried about more fame, but—and it’s like, I’m not Beyoncé, I’m like, Michelle.”

Satoru is simultaneously proud and disappointed: Proud that Suguru has finally understood the importance of Destiny’s Child and their impact on the music industry, and actually listened to his Vanilla Red Bull-infused rants on said topic—and absolutely, utterly disappointed that Suguru could take something so sacred, and defile it in such a way.

(Each member of Destiny’s Child has left a profound impact on their respective music genres, and Michelle is serving silently in the gospel industry, thank you.)

Satoru bites his tongue.

“Like, I can go outside, it’s just a gamble, but,” Suguru shrugs, defeated, “I get…anxious, about it, like, more than I already did, and like—I guess that’s what the song’s about, which is why I wanna sing it, but…what if this makes it worse. Do you think it’ll make it worse?”

Satoru blows a raspberry. He should probably lie, or something.

“Yeah, probably,” he says, and Suguru deflates. Satoru’s not too far behind. “But, I don’t necessarily think that’s…I dunno. I think it’s an important story to tell.”

Suguru smiles sadly, finally looking Satoru in the eyes as he slides a legal pad across the desk. “Well. You’re the storyteller.”

Satoru picks it up. Lyrics in Suguru’s handwriting, with inky blue smears across sharp letters from an erratically inspired left hand fill the page, in three messy and undivided columns. Satoru passes it back with a shrug.

“Sure. But, you’re the story.”

“Metal.”

“Pop.”

“Metal.”

“Pop-Punk.”

“Metal.”

“Pop-Rock?”

“…Hard rock.”

“I can work with that.”

I swear it’s getting harder, even just to exhale—

You met Suguru Getō on the playground.

He was getting his shit kicked in, but was also kicking shit in, if that makes sense?

You told a teacher, because that’s who you were at the time. And, Suguru got mad at you, because that’s who he was at the time.

You didn’t know much about Suguru Getō, other than the fact that his parents were scary—his Dad was the width of a train car (not that you knew how wide a train car was) and his Mom was the height of one, clacking down the halls and into the room where a teacher waited with a bruised-faced Suguru. It was none of your business. But, you were a kid, so, it was all of your business.

“Why do your parents look like that?” You ask the next day when you find him on the swings during recess. Suguru sneers at you, and—oh. Clearly, you’ve interrupted his peace.

“Look like what.”

“I dunno,” you shrug, hopping onto the free swing next to him, but make no effort to move. You shiver as you remember. “Scary.”

Suguru stares at you for a moment, trying to discern whether you were a true idiot, and, at the time, you were.

“They’re parents.”

“My parents don’t look like that,” you quip, teeth gritting in childish impatience at his cold attitude. No wonder he had no friends.

Suguru hops off the swing, and it wavers in his wake. Conversation over.

But—you kept talking him. There was something that tugged your juvenile curiosity to its true north, Suguru Getō, as he continued to sit in that corner, dark and alone and lacking bright eyes and bright energy that most children have—all children, in your small suburban public elementary school. You also weren’t paying attention to anyone your age that weren’t your friends, or him.

No, he reminds you more of your kindergarten teacher, the one that smelled like cigarettes and coffee and reeked of the ‘pains of adulthood’ that you’ve heard so much about.

“Why are you sad all the time?” You ask on a different day, bending over the ravenette sitting under a tree with a book atop his folded legs. And, again, because you’re seven and stupid and lack a filter, “Do your parents hit you?”

Suguru looks up at you, then, with a something in between confused and constipated, and you don’t get it. (You later learn to recognize it as his ‘vexed’ look. His ‘what the hell is wrong with you’ look.)

“What?”

“You look like my brother when our goldfish died,” you plop next to him, grass tickling the skin before your shorts, “but like…all the time.”

Suguru sighs, closing his book shut as his cheeks puff in irritation, “You’re nosy.”

“You’re sad,” you insist, poking at his cheek.

“I’m depressed,” he spits with a curled lip, slapping your hand away, before lifting his book. “And, I’m reading, so leave me alone.”

You blink at him thrice, rolling that word, depressed, around in your squishy bambini brain like a vocabulary word you need to remember for a test. Suguru just sighs again, and re-opens his book, content on ignoring your presence if you won’t leave him be.

“…What does that mean?”

You don’t get an answer. A few days pass, and you have another question with a slightly ulterior motive. That one, he does answer.

“Suguru, why do you fight people?”

“I don’t,” he answers, rather quickly, and you point at the bleeding boy who’s getting helped by a teacher across the playground. His eyes follow your finger, and he amends his statement. “He was being mean.”

“So, you fight mean people?”

Suguru nods.

“Okay!”

Another few days, a weekend, and then—

“Why would you do that?” Suguru huffs, examining your bruised knuckles. The bruise isn’t visible, but you’re a child with squishy arms and undeveloped kneecaps, and don’t know how to make a fist. In hindsight, it was more like slap boxing than anything else. “Why in the world did you do that?”

“She was being mean,” you answer, because it’s simple—mean people get hit, you know that now. You also know, now, that it’s not nice to call someone gay, and while you aren’t sure what it means, that girl said it like it was supposed to hurt. And, you definitely know that men aren’t supposed to hit women, so the answer was obvious.

“So, you get up and walk away,” his eyes narrow at you, and you feel like you’re missing something. You glare back, just for fun. “Be the bigger person.”

“No,” you shake your head, a little confused,” you’re supposed to fight the mean people.”

“I—No—” Suguru makes a strangled noise and drops your hand to slap his own across his forehead in pure annoyance. “How old are you? Five?”

“Your confused frown turns into one of genuine annoyance. “Hey! I’m eight and three-fourths!”

He groans again, dragging the hand on his face downward, and you suppress a giggle when it makes him look a little funny. He mutters, “Its like I have to follow you everywhere to make sure you don’t run into a wall, holy—”

“Ooh, would that make us friends?”

Suguru’s tangent falters only to give you a disturbed look.

“Why do you even want to be friends with me.”

You shrug, “because you’re weird.”

Suguru scoffs, but his permanent scowl twitches at the edges. Just a little. “So are you.”

“Exactly,” you beam, and hold a hand out again, this time for a very official and businessman-like handshake to seal the deal of all deals. “So. Friends?”

Suguru rolls his eyes, but meets you halfway.

“Fine.”

“Guys, Hard Rock is vague as fuck.”

“…Shit, you’re right.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe we need to pick a few bands. Narrow it down.”

“Harry Styles!”

“No, Satoru.”

“But—he’s like, alt—”

Backed up into corners, bitter in the lens—

Chōsō has no intricately symbolic introduction to Suguru Getō. Or any of his bandmates, for that matter. He met all three at the same time.

“He’s like…weird.”

Three people huddle in the corner of the small music classroom, all white bricks and no windows. They’re whispering, but, as stated, the room is very small. And, the guy with the white hair is very loud.

See, Chōsō knew of Suguru Getō, but didn’t know Suguru Getō—popularity is a toss-up in college, but Suguru, despite being a grade below Chōsō, was adored by everyone who knew him, and apparently, everyone knew him. In almost every room Chōsō entered, people were talking to or about Suguru Getō, about how he smiled for them today, how he held the door open.

He’s a perfect man, through and through. People want to be him, fuck him—it doesn’t matter what your sexuality is or what you carry between your legs, you want to be in his skin. Even the straight guys daydream about pulling his jet black hair and watching his eyeliner run.

Plus, when it came to the guitar, Suguru Getō was fucking good. Chōsō knows, because he had to take Fundamentals in Guitar his Freshman year, despite his concentration in the drums.

He had a plan—stay quiet in the back of class (which he does anyway), hope his hands wouldn’t leave sweat stains on the high pressured laminate, and try not to fail. He hates string instruments, has historically established beef with string instruments, but he doesn’t hate string instruments in Suguru Getō’s hands.

By the end of the first class, he was obsessed.

And, maybe Chōsō is a bit of a creep, making sure to keep Suguru in his peripheral after that. He swears that it’s because Suguru Getō is the best guitarist he’s ever seen (he is—his covers on instagram are insane) and not because he seems like a really cool, really nice guy that you could get coffee with on a Wednesday. But, that’s neither here nor there, nor is it important to the story. So.

(It’s definitely very important to the story.)

About a month ago, Chōsō saw a flyer, a band looking for a drummer, in the halls of the basement of the Zen’in building when he was leaving the private practice rooms. He took one, just in case—he’s a senior in college, and his loudest New Years Resolution is to put himself out there. (It’s halfway through his last semester.)

He forgot all about it until Suguru posted the exact same flyer on his Instagram story.

’LOOKING FOR A DRUMMER! DM IF INTERESTED!’

Chōsō choked on his toothbrush. He’d never typed so quick.

So, now he’s here—vaguely sweaty from a solo audition as he watches his three potential band mates huddle in a corner to decide his fate. In the meantime, he pulls out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his bag. He skipped his lunch break for this.

“Satoru, be nice.”

“Look at him,” blue eyes peek over a shoulder clothed in white, and Chōsō smiles before tearing off a corner of his sandwich.

The girl moves to slap him upside the head, misses, and connects with the back of his neck instead. He cups it with a hiss. Ouch, that sounded like it hurt.

“I like him,” she says, peering between two broad bodies, “He’s really good.”

“And really fucking weird,” the rude one scrunches his nose, looking for Chōsō once more, before snapping his head back with a huff. “He’s fucking—he’s literally only eating the edges of his sandwich.”

Chōsō looks down at the mess he made on the snare drum. The saran wrap that once protected his sandwich has been turned into a makeshift placemat. Bits and pieces of his destroyed sandwich sit in the middle. Evidence.

“I don’t like the middle,” Chōsō shrugs, and he takes another bite of another torn crust. Three heads whip in his direction quick, “I can hear you.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” says the guy with white hair, bristling, but it just earns him another slap. Whirling around on a heel to look at the girl, he growls, “Fucking quit it.”

She steps forward, chest puffed and clearly not intimidated by his glare whatsoever. “Then quit being a dick, Dickhead.”

“You know that’s redundant, right?”

“Suck my clit, Satoru.”

“Ohoho—well, if you’re offering—”

The argument fades in the background, though. Reduced to white noise, to nothing but sound, as Suguru approaches.

“Ignore them, they get like that.” He gives the argument a dismissive hand, taking an open seat not too far from the drum set Chōsō sits behind. Resting an arm on the back of the chair, and a chin on his arm, Suguru says, “You sounded really good.”

Feeling his face go hot, Chōsō wipes crumbs from the corners of his mouth. Hopefully, he’s not blushing. It’s hit or miss, to be honest.

Chōsō clears his throat.

“Thank you,” he nods, suddenly very conscious of the mess he’s made on the snare, “I—um, you sound good. Too.”

Suguru frowns, confused. It takes Chōsō a second to catch up, but when he does—ah, shit.

“I mean, um,” he wipes at his face again, just in case, rushing out his defense in a single breath like a lawyer desperately trying to their client off of death row. “You, uh, we were in the same class, my sophomore year.”

Suguru laughs, bright and beautiful and heavy, “Well. I can confirm I sound better than three years ago—you’re a senior, right?”

Chōsō keeps the whole ‘watching his videos on Instagram’ thing to himself, and just nods.

“Oh my god, ew, you’re a grandpa?!”

It comes from the guy in the corner, the one staring with wide blue eyes and genuine dismay. Suguru’s polite face curdles into something irritated, something that’s dealt with this before, and Chōsō wonders how long they’ve known each other as he sneers, “Satoru.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, but backs off—ends up putting the girl in a headlock, instead.

“Sorry about him. But, thank you,” Suguru smiles, tilting his head enough for a loose strand of hair to sway in front of his eyes. “I wish I could say that I remember you, but I’m not great with faces, I’m afraid.”

Chōsō shakes his head, gesturing to the tattoo on his nose, “No, that’s understandable. Plus, I didn’t have this.”

Suguru’s eyes trace the bridge of his nose in vague fascination. Chōsō squirms under his gaze.

“Did it hurt?”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughs, a little awkward, but enough to be socially acceptable, and gestures to his face with an open hand. “My whole face swelled up for a week.”

Suguru hisses out something painful, recoiling at the thought. “Ooh, ouch.”

Chōsō shrugs, the pain a faint memory, a ghost on his nose bridge. “I like the end result, so. It was worth it.”

Suguru huffs a faint laugh, eyes disappearing behind rounding cheeks, and Chōsō’s grip on the snare drum tightens. He should probably clean up, or…or something.

“So, um…what does your schedule look like?”

I’m sick of trying to hide it, every time they take mine—

The first performance went to shit. Naturally.

Because, Chōsō’s learned, Satoru’s ego is the size of an elephant, and Suguru, though graceful about it, isn’t too far behind.

You figured the schools open mic, held every Thursday in an auditorium, was a good place to practice publicly. Each performance has a four minute cap, and Riot by Three Days Grace sat at a comfortable three minutes and twenty seven seconds. It’s fun, it’s flashy, Satoru can sing and shred and Suguru can scream, easy. Done. So, why do they insist on making things so difficult?

Chōsō doesn’t understand the concept of an ego. He doesn’t understand much except for the crippling anxiety that follows him everywhere he goes, and the unconditional love for his brothers. Like, he gets it in theory—a person’s concept of themself gets too big for the body they’re in—but not in practice.

Satoru opens the song with a riff. Because, not only does he insist on being the lead singer, but also lead guitar—and pulls it off well. The rest of them help with background vocals. The rhythm is basic enough that Chōsō has a little room to have fun with it. It’s good, it’s chill. And then, The Solo.

The issue is that it’s a double solo, Chōsō quickly realizes—because, this has never happened during practice. Suguru and Satoru’s eyes meet with friction, a spark of competition. Their hands match on their frets, Suguru an octave deeper on the bass, and they don’t look away for a second.

The thing is, because he’s the drummer, Chōsō sees everything.

It begins with a competitive quirk of Suguru’s eyebrows as he steps away from the mic. And, Satoru—Satoru can’t hide shit, so he glares, pivots to Suguru, who grins like a cat that knows the mouse is done for.

They circle each other—spiritually, of course, because physically they’re stuck, glaring, for whatever reason—two beta fish flashing their gills from different tanks, even though they both have enough room, even though it’s literally fine—

The solo breaks, Satoru returns to the mic, and poof, it’s like nothing ever happened. You shoot Chōsō a weird look from stage left, one that reads ‘the fuck was that,’ but he doesn’t know.

You switch instruments with Suguru, after that. No more double solo’s for SatoSugu.

“…What if we just, like…do whatever…?”

“Chōsō, my man—! This guy knows what he’s talking about.”

“Satoru, we’re not doing Pop—”

“Pop is a broad, multi-faceted genre, that simply implies what’s popular at the time—“

“We’re not BTS.”

“Excuse me!”

“Oh, um—we’re not KARD.”

“Thank you.”

“Are they still a thing?”

“Well. Sounds dramatic when you put it like that.”

“You are, though!” Satoru splays both his hands out, faced to the foamed ceiling. “Sure, I have the most fans, or whatever—like, obviously—but I don’t—I like that shit, y’know. You don’t.”

“…I write the majority of our songs.”

Which, is fair—while Chōsō may write a song or two, or you, who tends to enjoy focusing on the music production side of things, the main songwriters are between him and Suguru. Satoru writes the songs that get them on radios and spotify playlists, Suguru writes the emotional, cosmic emo shit that wins them awards. It’s a balance. Very yin and yang.

“‘Kay,” Satoru scoffs a laugh, sitting back in his chair, “duh, but like, this one’s super personal—”

“They’re all personal,” Suguru defends, while Satoru has no concept of what he’s defending. The ravenette shrugs, “to me, at least.”

“Which is exactly why you should sing them,” Satoru only leans forward to flick his friend on the head, before returning to the warm spot in his chair. “Idiot.”

Suguru doesn’t flinch, but rubs the spot with a small smile.

“Why this song, though? You’ve written shit like this before.”

Suguru sighs. It’s long and heavy, and full with a lifetimes worth of contemplation.

“Like you said,” He twists his upper body to rest his elbows on the desk, right before the studio mixers begin. “Wouldn’t make much sense coming from you, would it?”

PART II — APPARENTLY, THE LIMELIGHT BURNS?

They ask me—is it going good in the garden?

Yeah, Satoru knew he’d like this shit. He’s used to this shit.

“Satoru—! Oh my God, he looked at me—“

“I want your Gojo Prodigy babies!”

“Satoru! Kiss Suguru for me, please!”

That he can do.

Satoru knows he looks good. He’s never been one for the grunge look—not like Suguru and Chōsō—maybe little more boy-group than punk, doesn’t have piercings in hot places and super sexy tattoos, but he knows. He knows, sweaty from the plane and hair coated in three day old grime, that he still looks fucking fire.

Suguru looks better, though. Even if he’s panicking.

A bubble of bodyguards protect the band and their suitcases as they lug them from the extended walk from the airport to a Black Escalade he hasn’t laid eyes on yet. It’s tight, the kind of tight most people only experience in a club, with shoulders stuffed to their ears and nothing to feel on their skin other than heated bodies. Satoru, ever the performer, gives the people what they want and beams. The world screams, then faints.

Suguru doesn’t like these things, though. He gets nauseous, actually vomited on a packed subway train once, which Satoru found very funny, and Suguru, not at all—and dizzy and pissy, and no one likes a pissy Suguru.

(Satoru has no right to talk.)

So, he puts his performance on pause for a second, for his best friend.

“Hey,” Satoru nudges him in the shoulder, which, technically he was already doing, this bump is intentional. Suguru looks at him, face framed by a set of black headphones. “You good?”

Suguru is, very obviously, not good. Stupid question, Satoru. Stupid, stupid—

Suguru laughs, even though he’s sure he can’t hear Satoru past screams and music and noise cancellation. You trip on the wheel of Satoru’s bag and he looks over his shoulder with something mean.

Ah yes. The Home-Wrecker.

Not—not that Suguru and Satoru had a home for you to wreck, or anything. Except, they kinda did—a sacred home, a peaceful, bro sanctuary, actually, that you destroyed the moment you popped your ugly face out of nonexistence and said you needed a place to crash for the week. Satoru doesn’t care if you’ve known Suguru longer, he doesn’t give a shit—

It was his home you invaded. Therefore, it was his home you wrecked.

But—right, Suguru—

They’re moving at a snails pace. For once, Satoru is actually impatient to get away from prying eyes as he watches the grip Suguru has on his suitcase tighten. He peeks through bulky bodyguard shoulders on his toes, and he swears the car, two crosswalks over from the exit, is further from where they started. Why is LAX so big?

“What the fuck is taking them so long,” he wants to scream, but grumbles instead. Satoru tugs down at the corners of his eyelids, careful to not send his sunglasses askew.

“I don’t fucking know, open your eyes, Satoru,” you snort from behind, like a child. Satoru’s grip on his handle tightens, and for a completely different reason than Suguru’s.

“Thanks Princess,” he grits over his shoulder. You kick the suitcase into the back of his legs.

Satoru gets on his toes again. Somehow, somewhere, at some point, the car looks like it’s weaving through traffic to get to them, and Satoru doesn’t know whether to be thankful, or very, very mad when he realizes they’re at the edge of the sidewalk, and they probably could’ve just walked across and been there by now—

Suguru shakily pulls his phone out, adjusting something, and Satoru—a whole centimeter taller, he doesn’t give a fuck what Suguru says—peers over his shoulder, expecting to see something loud and dramatic and edgy.

Calm: Transit Mindfulness Group by Dominic Reed.

Oh. Does that even drown out any noise?

“I’m in a field,” Suguru covers his unsteady voice with a reassuring nod, and Satoru snorts.

“Is the field peaceful?”

Suguru shrugs. “Sort of.”

The studio’s heavy door slams open. Home-Wrecker.

“What’cha doin’,” you smile, but you’re asking Suguru. You don’t glance at Satoru, he doesn’t even exist, apparently—fuck you.

“Um,” Suguru looks at Satoru, and Satoru looks at Suguru—because he’s not about to say anything the ravenette doesn’t want him to. Suguru looks at you. “Music stuff?”

“…What kind of music stuff,” you say, once its clear that’s all Suguru was intent on telling you, and—

So, we’re not gonna talk about the singing thing? At least, not yet.

Cool, cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool. Cool.

And, no, that’s not a giddy feeling in Satoru’s chest, it’s just like—the weather, or something.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Suguru lies, so easy, and Satoru, with all his flaws, has mixed feelings about that fact. Suguru smiles at you, fucking beams, and tucks the legal pad with all his ideas under a swarm of miscellaneous papers in one smooth move. “Any ideas?”

“Um,” you try to think, using all the power in that itty bitty brain of yours, humming with a finger on your lip. “What are you thinking?”

Suguru shrugs, looking at Satoru—like he’s supposed to know how to lie, too. Way to make a guy an accomplice.

“Pop!”

Which, to be honest, is his answer to everything.

Both of you groan, and with a hand over his face, Suguru mutters, “Forget I asked.”

“I just…” Suguru turns to you, resting an elbow on the table, “I was thinking something a little more experimental for this album.”

You frown, cock your head right. “But…we’re already experimental?”

Suguru eyes the hidden legal pad.

“Yeah.”

“The song is about her, isn’t it?”

“What song?”

“Caramel. You act like it’s about the audience, but it’s about her. Right?”

“Oh, um—Sure.”

“Sure? Sure is a shit answer.”

“It’s…about all of us?”

“Okay.”

“Satoru, stop laughing—I’m serious.”

“So am I—I don’t believe you.”

Can I get a mirror side-stage—

You know what an anxious Suguru Getō looks like. You’re fucking looking at it.

The issue is that Suguru is too smooth of a liar for his own good—he’s very good at stuffing his feelings into minuscule boxes and kicking them into the corners of his mind to collect dust, but there are tells. Not like any of those tells matter if Satoru’s in the room.

‘Pop’ your ass.

The scream park was supposed to be fun.

And, it was—is—just…not in the way you expected.

You thought inviting Suguru was a good idea—at age fourteen, your childhood best friend is still somewhat of a recluse, keeping to himself and his all-black outfits. Though you two don’t go to the same school anymore, you meet every few weeks for a monthly horror movie that has you clutching his bicep. Yes, including the campy ones—Killer Klowns from Outer Space gave you nightmares for weeks.

So, stupidly, you thought Suguru would like this.

You invited him along with your friends, insisting he be properly socialized. Like any antisocial hermit, he begrudgingly agreed.

While your friends have been to scream parks a few times, this would be your first.

Your parents weren’t willing to let you keep them up all night, not after the last time you walked through a haunted house, and, later that night, kept everyone awake after your paranoid brain convinced you that there was an axe murderer in your closet. Inviting Suguru is a fear-buffer—when he sleeps over, you're too busy debating something unimportant to worry about the important, like a hypothetical axe murderer in your closet.

He likes the scary shit anyways, so, it’s a win-win, right? You get to hang out with your friends in absolutely horrifying environment, and Suguru gets to be in an absolutely horrifying environment. Someone should’ve warned you about how packed it is, though.

You all go in costume. You’re some cute clown-bunny hybrid, still salty that you weren’t allowed to wear the white face paint that would've really brought the whole thing together. (You take your Halloween costumes very seriously.) Suguru, on the other hand, just wears black jeans and a hoodie, with a scream mask pushed into his hairline.

It wasn’t until you got out of the car that you realize you maybe made a tiny mistake.

You watch Suguru while walking, watch him through security, watch him as you and your friends step past the threshold. The music is loud—something vague and horrifying and instrumental, as people shift by you like they actually have something to do, something to get to. They don’t, though, and when a stranger accidentally checks Suguru’s shoulder, you scowl.

Someone asks Suguru to take a picture of the group, and as you’re posing, hiding a set of bunny ears behind your friends head in front of a fountain, you watch his hands shake around the lens.

Shit.

It isn’t until after the first ride that Suguru starts showing signs of needing a breather.

It’s subtle. The way his hands grow from flat to fist in his pockets, the obsessive crack of his neck or roll of the shoulder. When you finally get him to look at you, your face, he grins, but doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t jump at anything, not the scare actors or loud sounds, but his teeth grit at the whir of a chainsaw while you wait for the corn maze.

You poke him in the stomach. Suguru’s grown past you by now. You used to be taller than him, and still mourn those days.

He huffs at the prod, looking down at you. “What’s up?”

“You’re not okay,” you insist, wrapping an arm around his rigid body. “Why don’t you tell me when you’re not okay?”

Suguru breathes a laugh, wiggling his trapped arm, but doesn’t force you to let go. Doesn’t fully meet your eyes, either, “I’m fine, Y/N.”

“No,” you roll your eyes and drop your head to his shoulder, probably getting dramatic halloween makeup all over it. “You’re a good liar, but I can still tell.”

Suguru’s eyes flit over to your friends, way too engrossed in their conversation to pay either of you any mind—not that it’d matter, anyway. Not that you care.

Your crush for Suguru Getō formulated…at some point, probably.

You don’t really know. As kids, yes, you practically bullied him into being your friend, got a marriage promise out of it, too—and wedding, but that was rendered null and void by the time you two were eight. But, the cheap jelly ring he gave you is still in the back of your drawer, collecting dust and losing it’s poor integrity with age. And, do you wholly intend on having another wedding, one that isn’t rendered null and void because you two were eight? Perhaps.

That doesn’t mean that, like, you two can’t date other people in the meantime, of course. (Which, was a lesson you very quickly learned when Suguru got a girlfriend at nine.) You gotta…learn how to kiss and all that other stuff somehow, right? You can’t be kissing Suguru with loose lips! No, no. You have to be a Lip God. At least.

Wait—not like that, not like that—

You feel his shoulder shrug against your cheek, and Suguru attempts to laugh it off. “I swear, I’m fine.”

And no, he’s not fine—his adams apple bobs right after he speaks, like he’s choking on it, trying to convince himself that it’ll pass right under your faultless Suguru-Lie-Detector. It does not.

The line moves, and you two shuffle forward without breaking your precarious hold on each other—well. Your precarious hold on him.

“You look like you’re about to go Super Saiyan. Like you did when we were ten.”

“My episodes are not ‘going Super Saiyan,’” Suguru snorts, and gives an easy smile as he eyes you on his arm. “And—we definitely agreed to never talk about that ever again.”

“I’m not talking about that,” you say, enveloping another hand around his until you’re practically leaning on him for ‘warmth.’ “I’m referring to it, yes, but—“

“Then, no references,” he wheedles, and you huff, adjusting the weight on your feet as they start to cramp.

“Fine, whatever,” you grumble under your breath. Suguru holds his smile, but it’s twitchy, and you can feel every muscle in his arm as if his hand is taut. (It is.)

“Well…I kinda want to go home after this,” you scrunch your face, bending your legs, one knee at a time, “My feet hurt.”

Suguru scoffs. Shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”

No, not really—you’ve only done like two rides.

“But, Suguru,” you whine, collapsing against him like some fallen maiden in that Shakespeare book you’re supposed to be reading for class. You adopt a poor iteration of their accents, too. “My feet—I shouldn’t have worn these shoes. We have to go.”

You always wear the same shoes, and tonight is no exception. But—you and Suguru don’t go to the same school anymore. You might be able to get away with this.

“I’ve seen you in those before,” his brows furrow into something exasperated, shaking your weight off with a nudge. He cracks his neck for the thirteenth time tonight. “Plus. We paid for this. I’m fine, really—a little claustrophobic, but, I’ll live.”

You study his face, his clearly not fine face. (While, fine in other ways.) He matches your energy, refusing to look away.

Ah, fuck it.

Your false pretense was shot from the beginning, anyway.

“Are you having fun?”

His voice comes breathy, strained, and annoyed, “I’m fine, Y/N.”

So. No.

Immediately, you collapse into his left side again.

“My feet! I can’t go on—”

“Oh my God—“

“—you must go without me, Suguru. Be free!—”

“—you’re seriously being so embarrassing right now—”

“—leave me to die. You must live for yourself, Suguru! Live!”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, peeling your fingers away from the vice grip you have on his shaking shoulders. “Fine, God—we can go home after this.”

You beam.

“Okay!”

And, after the maze, you two head back to your place and watch Death Note. Suguru has the bright idea to pierce his ears. You help—it was a mess.

“Suguru, you’re gonna have to sing in front of her, eventually.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“I’m going to remind you! We’re running of time!”

“Wait—it’s okay, he just needs a little more—”

“Running. Out of. Time, Chōsō! She’s onto us—I repeat, mayday, mayday—“

“I think you’re just stressing him out…”

“He’s definitely stressing me out.”

“I don’t care! This—this whole thing, right here—this is stressing me out. Fucking—Rip the bandaid off! Strip for your girl!”

“She’s not my girl, Satoru—”

“Okay, um, I don’t think this session is…very productive…”

I guess that’s what I get for trying to hide in the limelight—

Okay. Whatever Chōsō said about his anxiety, he takes it back. Flip it, reverse it, or whatever Missy Elliot says.

He thinks that might be what this is. Maybe.

It's something.

“Fuck you!”

Both you and Satoru are gone—you, on a trip back home to visit family, and Satoru, on a trip to the Maldives, with some girl Chōsō is sure he’s never seen before or will see after. He figured, great! The two loudest people are gone. Time for some peace and quiet, maybe sushi and sake.

Suguru doesn’t get…belligerent. That’s more Satoru’s thing, but he’s belligerent all the time, so is there really much of a difference?

And now, Chōsō Kamo, the most reserved of the band is left doing damage control, when he, truly, doesn’t know what the damage is. Yet.

“Suguru, get off the table.”

“No!” Suguru hollers, arms wide like it’s obvious. Suguru doesn’t blush, but when he drinks, his face tinges pink—and maybe, it’s Chōsō’s fault for not keeping an eye on him, or his alcohol intake, but Suguru’s a grown man who’s well aware of his own limits. Chōsō thought. “Fuck you and’ur mom!”

Chōsō doesn’t exactly know what his mother has to do with this, but okay. Sure.

“Okay, Suguru, just—get off the table, please.”

Because, Suguru is drunk enough that his center of gravity is off a few centimeters. He’s in socked feet, and the mahogany dining table is polished smooth. God forbid he trips and falls, and Chōsō has to drag a mean and drunk Suguru to the hospital.

But, he doesn’t listen. Hasn’t been listening, not that Suguru is a dog or anything, but—Chōsō sort of needs him to listen right now.

He swipes at Chōsō’s offering hands, nose twisted in a level of petulance reserved for children. With a sigh, Chōsō tries a different approach: taking Suguru off the table himself.

The second he wraps arms around the rhythm guitarist’s thighs, Suguru starts twisting, shoving, and kicking—ow.

“Don’ fuckin’ touch me!”

But Chōsō doesn’t listen, and strains his lower back to lift the brick shithouse off the table they eat their food on.

When Suguru’s feet hit the floor, he tries a different approach—snatching Chōsō’s forgotten and half-full beer bottle to chuck at the wall, leaving the brunette to watch it crack, shatter and fizz. Chōsō laments over the carpet, but keeps his tunnel vision. Suguru.

Suguru, the immovable—Suguru, the rock—and Chōsō watches him crack, shatter and fizz, just like the beer before him.

Crack.

“Fuck this shit, honestly,” Suguru wheezes out a laugh, one that sounds painful to make, and runs a hand through his hair to tug at the root. He walks into the living room, probably to find something else easy to destroy and replace.

It escalates rather quickly—first a lamp, swiped off its desk like a grumpy cat. The remote, the TV tray. A snow globe. Eventually, he runs out of the small things. Chōsō moves from his frozen position in the doorway when Suguru moves to pick up an end table.

“Suguru—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Suguru warns, but Chōsō can’t—not when there’s a piece of brown glass stuck in his hand, not when his knuckles go red and bloody from punching a wall. Suguru breaks the table anyway, right against the wall, like a batter with a baseball, his grip tight on the two bottom legs. Luckily, the thing is cheap, and crunches into bits of wood on impact and only scuff the wall. Chōsō’s more worried about the hole in the kitchen. (Do those ramen fix-it TikToks actually work? Probably not, right?)

Chōsō steps deeper into the room. Suguru said not to touch him, but… “Suguru—”

“Fuckin—what? What?” Suguru presses, his face contorts, mean and menacing, and into a look Chōsō’s never seen him wear. “Go home! I don’t want to talk to you, anymore—I don’t want to see your fucking face—”

“But…” Chōsō warbles, gulps. He’s never been good at standing up for himself. “I…live here…?”

Suguru gives him a look, something incensed, and drops the two loose legs of the end table he held in both palms. He sighs, resolute. “Fine, then. I’ll leave.”

Which—is definitely not an option.

As he moves to exit the living room, Chōsō stands in his way. It’s unsteady—and Chōsō might be strong, but he’s always been the shortest out of the three guys, and he wavers under Suguru’s heavy glare. Doesn’t fold, though.

“You…you can’t.”

“Why,” Suguru whines, but it’s mocking and high pitched as he waves his arms wildly, “‘Cuz I’m gonna ruin the bands pretty little image? I don’t give a fuck—move.”

Chōsō gulps and shakes his head. Suguru would probably hate him forever if he let him leave—well, his Suguru would never hate him, but this one might—and Chōsō’s not willing to just…let him loose in the streets like this. Suguru would probably get hit, and it’d probably be all over the news. And his Suguru would hate himself for that. He doesn’t want his Suguru to hate himself.

So, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t move when this new Suguru berates him, saying he’s a ‘stupid ass bitch who can barely hold a beat,’ which hurts, but Chōsō knows it isn’t true. He hopes it isn’t true. Regardless if it’s true or not, Chōsō doesn’t move.

But. He might be strong, but he’s always been the shortest out of the three guys—and with Suguru’s added mass, he shoves Chōsō through the doorway easy, hard, and clears his path out.

The back of Chōsō’s head slams against the hallway wall, and he trips to the ground. He hisses, hand rushing to rub the sore spot. Suguru blinks once, twice. A level of lucidity crosses his eyes, and then he’s back.

Shatter.

“Oh,” Suguru’s body sways, straightens, and then he sees. He rushes to Chōsō’s side, crouching on his feet, and Chōsō flinches, not because his Suguru would hit him—but, because the other one might, and he doesn’t know which one this is. “Wait—wait, wait, wait—fuck, um—”

Suguru’s hands hover by Chōsō’s arms instead, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry—are you—are you okay? Fuck.”

“I’m fine,” Chōsō insists with a waving palm. Yeah, his heart is beating too fast, but that’s more from the adrenaline of it all—the pain subsides quick enough. Suguru starts pulling at his hair again, surveying Chōsō’s body like he could’ve hit him somewhere else and not remember, and Chōsō removes the hand at the back of his own neck to swat at Suguru’s. “Stop that.”

“Yeah, right, sorry,” Suguru nods, and curls the shorter strands of hair behind his ears before wrapping arms around his own knees instead, “I—fuck. Are you—are you sure you’re okay? Like, not just physically but, like, mentally? I’m sorry, I don—”

“You…” Chōsō frowns as he watches gold irises blur and tears threaten Suguru’s waterline. He cowers, looking at the ground, as Chōsō comes to a realization. “You don’t remember.”

“N-No,” Suguru’s voice cracks, and he sniffles, rubbing an inner wrist into his eye. “I can’t—I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have drank tonight, I knew—”

“Suguru,” Chōsō’s voice cuts through his like a knife through butter, and he gives his friend a light slap on the shoulder. “You’re fine, I promise.”

Suguru looks at him through his forearms, bottom lip wobbling as he struggles to let out another, wet, “I’m sorry.”

And, Chōsō’s heart breaks for Suguru Getō—because, yes, obviously, getting publicly forced out of the closet and losing your mom in the span of a few months is beyond tough. But, because Chōsō was stupid and put Suguru on a pedestal beyond himself, when he knows damn well this man is human, just like the rest of them. Suguru isn’t some idealistic, Dark Hero archetype from everyone’s inner teenage dreams. He dreams, too.

Chōsō doesn’t trust his constricting throat—never been good at watching someone cry without shedding a few tears himself—but he opens his arms, and speaks anyway.

“C’mere.”

Suguru deflates at that, and drops his knees to pillow his head in Chōsō’s chest.

And then, he cries.

Fizz.

“…Suguru. What is this…?”

“O-Oh um, hey, didn’t see you there—no, wait, don’t take that—”

“And what—get off—what does ‘Satoru sings here’ mean? Are you…”

“I—Uh—uhm…give that back, please—c’mon, I—don’t put that in your bra, that’s not—”

“You’re singing?!”

“No! Uh, well, kinda? I—give it—”

“Get your filthy fucking paws—you betrayer! You can sing? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I—it’s not—”

The door creaks open.

“Ooh…she found out?”

“Fucking—Satoru knows! Who else knows? Nanami?!”

PART III —GET A GRIP.

Stick to me, stick to me like caramel—

By the time the second chorus rolls around, the audience swears they know the words. And, while Suguru supposes the words are simple—Christ, they don’t know the words.

Not that it really matters, honestly. Suguru is just thankful his hands are finally busy. Holding off on the guitar until now did wonders for the song, and horrors for his nerves.

Suguru would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous (terrified), and would be lying again if he didn’t say he was still nervous (terrified). The butterflies in his belly crawl up his throat and shear his voice into something uneven, something raw, but the waver disintegrates beneath the amount of noise in the arena—on and off stage.

Suguru can sing fine. Decent. That doesn’t mean he likes to. Normal, basic human interaction makes him dizzy—eye contact makes his head hurt, and singing in front of a crowd actually makes him want to die.

But, it’s important for him to sing this particular song—even if he’s written about this topic a million times before, and will a million after, veiled under every religious allegory he can find by then.

It’s important that he tells his bandmates how he feels.

Even if Satoru’s a fucking idiot.

Too young to get bitter over it all—

“I need you to scream.”

“Um,” Satoru spins in his rolling chair to face Suguru, who lays on the peeling leather couch in the home studio. The one that Satoru swears used to be a casting couch before you four picked it off the side of the road on the way to Vegas. “Haha, very funny.”

“I’m not kidding,” Suguru frowns, leaning his upper body over the arm of the couch. Satoru actually laughs this time, turning back to the computer, to Protools, doing something in a program Suguru doesn’t fully understand. (Because, fuck Protools, all my homies hate Protools—Logic all the way.)

“Ha! Yeah, no. That’s your thing.”

Suguru sighs, pushing away from the couch. It’s comfortable, he will miss it, but this sort of convincing takes his full and undivided attention.

Resting a hand on the table to Satoru’s left, Suguru watches him fiddle with the mouse, pointedly ignoring his presence. Asshole.

“Well. Singing’s your thing, and, I’m doing that. So…”

It’s not a matter of whether Satoru can or cannot—he can, Suguru had to teach him guitar and was forced to, frustratingly, watch him learn his way around a neck in half the time Suguru did. Which, he supposes isn’t a fair conjecture—Suguru picked up the guitar at five, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel a little butt hurt about it.

Satoru can do it. Satoru knows he can do it, so why—

(He knows Satoru doesn’t think he can do it, just like he didn’t think he could play the guitar—but it baffles him, nonetheless.)

“My vocal cords,” Satoru huffs a laugh, cupping his neck with a careless shrug that looks stiffer than he thinks. “I know you drink your—your fucking molasses water, or whatever—”

“—Licorice root tea. Which, you should be drinking as well—”

“—I don’t give a fuck, Keisha, I’m gonna bust an internal jugular vein, or something, no.”

Suguru blinks.

“…Who’s Keisha?”

Satoru sighs, loud and heavy and more of a groan than anything else, and rolls his head until he’s staring far from Suguru and into the ceiling.

“We have songs where we don’t scream,” he shrugs, refusing to take his eyes off the sky. “Just, like…take it out.”

“I can’t just ‘take it out,’” Suguru mocks out his nose with whine. Satoru shoves him in the shoulder.

“Not what I sound like,” he mutters, but shifts his glare at Suguru instead of the ceiling. Finally.

“Good Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“I’m not doing it, Suguru.”

“C’mon,” Suguru pouts, dropping his head forward until the hair sticking to his back drops to his shoulder. He puts a little bass in his voice, just enough for Satoru to shiver, and feels a little bad for playing dirty. “For me?”

Satoru huffs so hard his cheeks bend above the air.

“I hate you.” Blue eyes scowl at the ceiling again, and the chair wobbles as Suguru puts a hand at the head. “I hate you so fucking much, Oh my God—”

Satoru slides his hand over his face, deliberately starting under his glasses, and Suguru leans in.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a fuck you,” Satoru insists with a snarl, running a hand through his hair until it sticks up, “You’re not allowed to—to fucking commission me to scream on a song you wrote for your girlfriend. No.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Suguru corrects, but he knows Satoru doesn’t give much of a shit. “And, the song isn’t about her, it’s about all of you.”

“Stop saying that. it’s a load of shit.”

Suguru shrugs. It’s the truth—but he doesn’t necessarily know how to prove it, either. And, Satoru is stupid when he has an agenda.

“You just don’t want to tell me, because we have this whole ‘best friend turf war’ going on,” Satoru says as he reaches into the tub of DumDum’s they bought a month ago, and comes out with a blue. He unwraps it with the ease of a constant candy consumer, “Which, I get it, you’re a nice guy, Suguru—and don’t fucking do the emo ‘I’m not a nice guy,’ shit, okay, you are—”

Suguru closes his mouth.

Satoru pops the lollipop in his own, and Suguru pointedly ignores the way his lips fit around it as Satoru sucks, and pulls it back out, “I’m just saying—you’re asking me to learn something new for a bitch I don’t even like—”

“Not a bitch, Satoru!” You holler as you walk past, laundry basket balancing between your waist and arms.

“Fuck you!” He yells back, but you’re gone as quick as you came. He tugs the lollipop out the corner of his cheek with a faint pop, and plays a pout as he nods, redirecting his attention to the man in front of him. “That’s a lot for me, Suguru.”

Suguru sighs, taking the seat beside him—which, he probably should’ve taken to being with, but he likes towering over Satoru. Even if Suguru is, technically, taller than him by a centimeter. It’s not like he feels it.

Resting his cheek on a fist, Suguru’s voice settles into something serious. “You know that both of you are my best friends, right?”

Suguru would be bold enough to lump Chōsō into that equation, as well—but doesn’t, or else Satoru will start coming after him, too.

Satoru sighs, leaning his head against the back of the chair. Suguru watches his throat bob, listens to the clack of the lollipop between teeth as he rolls it from one cheek to the other.

“But like…” and Satoru laughs, tight and bitter and unbecoming. Something in Suguru’s chest twists.

They don’t talk about feelings—that’s not really their thing, but they should probably talk about this. (There’s a million other things that they should probably talk about, but most of those are locked in a can of worms they both swear to never open again. So.)

“What happens when she’s your best friend and your girlfriend,” Satoru says, pulling at his collar a little. Suguru wishes he could see eyes behind the glasses, “Who’s gonna beat you at Mario Kart?”

Depending on the day, either of them could win—but Suguru bites his tongue.

“You will.”

“And like,” Satoru swallows, pats down the most egregious points in his hair, “we’re twenty-six, Suguru. One of these days, you’re gonna get, like, a wife—not Y/N, God, not her, we’re working on your taste in women before then, but—like, a wife, right, and a picket fence—”

Blasphemy, Suguru wants to say, but bites his tongue—again.

“—and like, two kids and a dog, y’know? Will you even have time for Mario Kart, then?”

“Wow,” Suguru clicks his tongue, “You have my whole life figured out.”

“Okay, fuck you,” Satoru huffs a laugh, accompanied by a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m being deadass.”

“So am I,” Suguru says, nodding once, before shifting, “If I settle down, and have…everything you just said, you’d be the fun uncle that keeps my kids secrets and feed the dogs bacon under the table, and have a new hot model girlfriend that’s definitely way too young for you every month—that’s a very important archetype, you know. Essential to the sitcom.”

Satoru laughs, shaking his head, but it’s a lot lighter than before. And, if Suguru can’t help but brush a few stray pieces of hair from Satoru’s face, that’s his fucking prerogative—

“I’d eat all your snacks.”

“Probably.”

“And piss off your wife.”

“Definitely.”

“And fuck so loud.”

“Okay, maybe wait until my hypothetical children are out the house for that.”

Satoru breathes a smile—a proper smile, this time, with all his teeth and a dimpling left cheek. The light of the computer screen ignites the edges of his hair into something whiter than white, a halo—a techno-angel with the personality of Lucifer himself. (Lucifer seems like he’d be a pompous bastard.)

Suguru needs to get a grip. On like…life.

“Fine,” Satoru says, licking artificial blueberry off his lips with a blue tongue, and pointing a half-bitten lollipop at Suguru like it commands attention. “If I do this…our graves gotta be next to each other when we die.”

Suguru grins.

“Deal.”

Damocles.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“Get out of my face.”

“Y/N, I understand you’re mad, but just—”

“Shut up.”

“—just hear me out, it’s—”

“I will murder you in your sleep.”

“Okay, but li—ow, stop throwing shit—”

Too old to retaliate like before—

Suguru is awoken by a knock to his apartment door.

Suguru jolts into existence—like he does every time—from his nap on the couch. Because, he’s an adult with an adult internship, god dammit, and if he wants to nap like a five year old after every shift, then he can.

There’s the knock again.

“One moment!” Suguru yells from the hollow of their tiny apartment, and drags a hand over his face. What time is it? What time did he fall asleep? What day is it and does he have class tomorrow?

All he knows is that the sun was up, and now, it’s gone. Swallowed by the moon and the stars and the space in between.

Knock, knock, knock!

Fuck—did Satoru forget his key, or something?

“I said, one moment!”

Suguru’s voice goes tight with annoyance, building as he rips himself away from the warmed couch with hands on his knees. Loose hair shifts in front of his shoulders, bun destroyed by sleep and hair-tie MIA. He stumbles to the front door with loose limbs, sniffling sleep away, and just in time for—

Knock, knock—!

“What?”

Suguru will admit: his frustrations get the better of him and bleed through his voice, because God, is this an unseemly ass way to wake up—

But, it’s not Satoru at the door. It’s you.

Which—weird—because it’s you, hiking a duffle bag up your shoulder with a small bounce. It’s the middle of the semester, you should be at college, but you’re in Tokyo—at his doorstep in Tokyo. He’s not even sure you’re actually here, so used to seeing you through a phone screen that you look surreal, like a celebrity he’s only perceived through LCD’s, like if he reaches out, you’ll disappear. His mind questions your presence again, again, and again, until you’re confusing in concept. Suguru probably has a really stupid look on his face.

“You…?”

“Hello, Big Shug—”

Your mythical essence falters, and you’re human again, an existing, graspable concept once more. Suguru sighs, cupping the upper half of his face in a hand. “Please don’t call me that.”

“—would you, perhaps, have a couch that I could crash on, perhaps?”

Suguru rests his shoulder against the doorway, still waking up. “Why do you keep saying perhaps?”

“Because, perhaps,” you twist your lips, sway on your toes. “I moved in with my boyfriend like you told me not to, perhaps, and it went to shit just as you predicted, perhaps—”

“Okay,” Suguru huffs, rushing an open hand forward to get you to quit it, “stop saying perhaps.”

And, of course, you left that part of your college career out any time he called but, why you came here (a hop, skip, really expensive plane ticket, and a jump) instead of bunking with one of your friends is beyond him. If you didn’t want to tell him in the first place, why tell him at all?

Ouch. That kind of hurts.

But, Suguru can’t get mad about it. Not when he has a slight problem of hiding things from you too, and you always find out from a mouth that isn’t his own, but—that’s also different. That’s so different, actually—he’s not mad. Just…bitter.

“Okay,” you nod vehemently, before your eyes drift to the hallway. “…Perhaps—”

“Just—” Suguru snatches the bag off your shoulder. He tries very, very hard to give you a stern look, the hardest of all tries, but a small smile slips when you giggle. God, he missed that sound. “Get inside, Idiot.”

“Yes, Big Shug—!”

“Fucking stop it.”

Suguru waits until you get situated to start pressing. Waits until you’ve showered, eaten, had the grand tour of his tiny college apartment and got comfortable with a grade 3 horror movie.

“So…” Suguru wishes the word in his mouth, looking at you curled up on the couch—his couch. The movie dyes the room a florescent blue, then red, and you jump, shoving your face into the pillow clutched tight to your chest.

“I hate this so much,” you grumble, and Suguru pokes you on the shoulder, taking it as an excuse to keep his arm resting on the back of the couch.

“Want me to pause it?” He asks, head lolling right to find your face. You huff again.

“…No.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Definitely not.”

Suguru sighs, removing his arm from the couch to pinch at your toes. You kick them away. “C’mon, why not?”

“Because,” you sigh, rolling until your back lays against the head rest. You keep your legs stiff and bent. “It’s stupid—”

“It’s not—”

“I’m stupid.”

“No, you’re not—”

“Suguru,” the grip on the stolen cushion tightens, and your chest rattles under the weight of a shuddering exhale, eyebrows melting into something entreating. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

Suguru never liked the guy in the first place—his own personal feelings aside. It’s just…he was so not your type, completely below your league, an-and—

“Okay,” Suguru nods, leaving your feet alone to rub your shin. “Okay. What do you wanna do then? Mario Kart?”

You snort and shake your head. “It’s not fun to play a game you can’t win.”

Suguru smiles. Maybe—but he plays them anyways.

“Mmm…” he hums, tapping his bottom lip. “We can’t pierce my ears…”

“No. But,” you giggle, and drop your legs to cross them as you lean forward, pillow squishing under your forearms, “we could pierce mine.”

It took some convincing.

“Oh! Do we need an apple? What do they do that in? Parent trap?” You blabber from your position on his floor, with crossed legs and an arm propped on the couch. Semi-symmetrical dots are drawn on your earlobes by a thin sharpie. Suguru rests on his heels with a sewing needle in hand, already cleaned and sterilized.

This is such a bad idea.

(It was a bad idea at fourteen, too, but he was fourteen. Now, he’s twenty-one and knows that this is such a bad idea.)

“Stop—moving your head,” Suguru grunts, using his needle-less hand to get a good grip on your crown and still it. “And, no. It’s just slippery that way.”

You take a melting crescent ice from the bowl and rub the flat side against your ear, even though he keeps telling you it’s not going to help.

“Oh, okay,” you nod, and Suguru sighs.

“I’m not going to pierce your ears if you keep moving.”

“Right! Right.”

You relinquish your ice and give him the right side of your face. With a slow exhale, Suguru scoots closer—damn, his knees hurt—and cradles your ear. He takes a big breath.

“Ready?”

You stifle a nod.

“Yep.”

With that, Suguru pushes the needle with moderate strength. You hiss, squeezing your eyes shut and digging fingernails into his arm, and. Well. In a different context—

“Ow, ow, ow, ow—Suguru, it hurts.”

“I know,” Suguru hushes, because he knows it does, but he’s already halfway there. He just hopes his coo comes soothing and not as stilted as he feels, because one (1), he hates seeing you in pain, but two (2), this is also…kind of hot?

Get a fucking grip, Suguru.

“Almost there,” he huffs, and has to get up on his knees to make sure the needle isn’t drifting. You whine through grit teeth after another series of ‘ow,’s. “You’re so good—so good for me, just a little more…”

And then, right as he feels your skin part and make way for something solid—

“Honey, I’m home!”

The front door slams into the wall, doorknob deepening the divot already borne by his hyperactive roommate with impeccably horrid timing.

The grimace on your face turns sour as Suguru jolts back, fumbling with a pair of old earrings that soak in alcohol on the coffee table.

“Who the fuck is 'Honey?'”

“God, who the hell turned all the lights on,” Satoru laments, flicking every single switch by the entrance off. Which is an egregious amount. The kitchen, the hallway, the living room—all go dark in quick succession. “Bright as fuck, for what.”

Suguru gives you an apologetic smile, threading the needle through and quickly replacing it with a stud. “My roommate.”

You and Satoru haven’t met yet—he kept it that way, because he needed as much full control of the situation as possible. He had a plan. A Casual day, maybe a Thursday, meet for coffee in a neutral space, subtly point out the things you have in common. But now, control is out the window (it's dead, in the middle of the busy street right outside their apartment), and Suguru begins realize the gravity of his mistake as hair raises on the back of his neck. It’s a primal warning—a cosmic cue that two galaxies are about to collide, and everyone should get the hell out of dodge.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

Satoru finds his hiding spot rather quick (not a hiding spot, because he’s not hiding…just stalling) and a white head pops up over the back of the couch.

“Suguru!” Satoru hollers, but he’s right there, Suguru can hear him. “What did I say about sneaky links in the living room?”

Your eyes narrow at his roommate. Fuck. “Sneaky links?”

“You heard me,” Satoru says with raised eyebrows and all the elegance of an inbred royal house cat. He turns back to Suguru, who’s quickly trying to figure out how to do damage control, because, that’s not a conversation they’ve ever even had—Suguru doesn’t do ‘sneaky links.’ “Couch is off. Limits.”

He pats the top cushion twice. Suguru rushes to defend himself so quick his tongue stumbles and trips. You redirect your glare to Suguru, and, yikes.

“Sneaky links?!”

“I—no,” Suguru huffs a laugh, and it’s fragile, airy, defensive. He adjusts the weight on his knees so they ache a little better. “You—Satoru—”

“What the fuck is this sex position, even,” Satoru waves two fingers in between the two of you with a limp wrist, “I’m trying to figure out where the dick goes, exactly—”

Suguru take a deep breath. In, and out.

“Satoru,” he says with a polite smile, though he knows the twitch in his left eye gives him away. “This is my friend from childhood, Y/N. Y/N, this is my roommate, Satoru.”

“And best friend,” Satoru adds like it’s important. Apparently, it is—you bristle with one earring, standing to your feet with wobbly knees, too comfortable being bent.

“Awh, that’s cute,” you coo, but it’s all too saccharine to be honest. “Look, Suguru—he thinks he’s your best friend.”

Satoru puffs his chest at that. Resting a hand on the cushion and his weight on top, he beams.

“Definitely am, Sweetheart.”

You hum, nodding. You look Satoru up and down, scrutinizing something that Suguru doesn’t see. You pull Satoru’s sunglasses off his face, and he lets you, which is a feat in of itself. You click your tongue.

“Yeah…I don’t know who you are.”

Satoru huffs. His face goes bright red.

“Oh, you fuckin—”

Satoru swipes for his glasses from behind the couch, and you jump back, snatching the pillow you cuddled earlier. “Don’t you—Suguru, Suguru, he tried to hit me!”

“I did not,” Satoru tries again, but you shove the cushion in his face like a shield, and tuck the delicate item behind your back. It’s muffled, but Suguru can make out the, “S’guru! Tell ‘er to gi’f’em back!”

Suguru sighs.

…This is going to be a thing now, isn't it?

Dangerous.

“Stop staring at me.”

“Suguru, you’re in the booth—where else are we supposed to look?”

“I don’t know. The wall?”

“If you’re going to sing for a screaming crowd, you’re gonna have to sing in front of your bandmates.”

“That’s…different.”

“Mm. Just like is different to tell your best friend you can sing—”

“Y/N—”

“Um, excuse me, I’m his best friend—”

“Suck my clit, Satoru—”

“No, I get it—it’s easier to perform to a sea of faces than just one person.”

“Thank you, Chōsō.”

Too blessed to be caught ungrateful, I know—

Chōsō’s too sweet.

Like, makes-Suguru-heart-hurt sweet.

“Suguru?”

Suguru wakes to the softest voice and the yellow light of the hallway. A shadow hovers in his doorway, clutching something square and soft under its arm. At first, Suguru thinks he’s about to die, probably by the hands of some vengeful spirit, but the shadow shifts, and light cuts across pale cheekbones. Anytime Chōsō has his hair down, he looks like a stranger.

That doesn’t keep Suguru from sitting up stiff straight, hair matted on one side and shirt wrinkled from sleep. He clicks the phone on his nightstand, and it ignites—3 am. Christ.

“Chōsō?” He blinks, running a hand over his puffy face when the blink doesn’t wake him enough. The shadow in his doorway cowers.

“Um—sorry, I was just trying to check if you were awake.”

His words have a laugh behind them, sounding nervous instead of elated, which…is fair. Chōsō’s been dodging him for the past month, and Suguru doesn’t blame him. (Well, not dodging, Chōsō doesn’t dodge, just like…purposeful avoidance?)

“You’re good,” Suguru barely sounds like himself, still trying to get a proper grip on reality. He shifts weight off his arms to sit up against the headboard, hands folding in his lap. “Sorry. I know I’m kind of scary when I wake up.”

I know I’m kind of scary to you.

“It’s okay,” Chōsō shakes his head, and his hair flutters, “Most people jolt like that. It’s normal.”

It’s nice, it’s sweet, and it makes Suguru’s heart hurt.

And, Suguru’s apologized—Chōsō knows he did, again and again and again, with words and purchases and gestures until the most patient person in the world was visibly annoyed. But, it doesn’t feel like he’s apologized, not enough. Will it ever feel like enough?

“So, uh,” Suguru pulls at a tangle when he can’t run a hand all the way through his hair. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Chōsō shakes his head again. “I was just seeing if you were awake, s’all.”

And—Suguru knows what he wants. It’s what he always wants in the middle of the night, but like—

Is it wrong for Suguru to give it to him?

Suguru figures if he’s asking, then no, but—what if Chōsō came to him because he felt like he had no other option, not because he wants to. Suguru doesn’t really understand why Chōsō would even consider letting him touch him, let alone cuddle in Suguru’s bed when he can’t sleep without a warm body.

“Suguru?”

And, here’s the dance—Chōsō’s like…a vampire. (Hear him out.) So, he comes to Suguru’s door, acting nothing of it—even when they both know Chōsō would go to bed at eleven every night if he could—and Suguru is supposed to invite him in, so he doesn’t feel like a disturbance in a space that shouldn’t be his. Suguru knows the steps, knows them like the back of his hand, but…does he do them? Does he dance?

It’s not like Chōsō isn’t in his right mind, or anything. But, Suguru hasn’t forgiven himself yet, and he doesn’t understand how Chōsō can.

When Chōsō crosses the threshold on his own, Suguru is a little proud.

“Are you—um, are you sure?” Suguru flinches. Chōsō, also, most definitely isn’t fragile, he’s a drummer—but Suguru wants to treat him that way, the way he deserves, and delicate things rarely survive rough hands. “I’m sure Y/N would let you sleep in her bed, if you asked. Satoru would be a dick about it, but he’d definitely let you, too.”

Chōsō makes him feel small. And—And weird, and teenagery, an—

“I mean,” Chōsō stills, and the pillow he carries bends under his arm. “I understand—I get it if you don’t want to, but—”

“Oh! No—no, I want to, I just—”

“—you don’t have to feel like, obligated, or anything—”

“No, swear I don’t, it’s just,” Suguru wavers, swallows, and the hands in his lap grip the duvet beneath to keep him steady. “I just…don’t get how you can trust me…after that.”

He starts strong, maybe a little rushed, but ends the phrase quiet and sunken into himself.

“Well,” Chōsō falters, not in apprehension, but in a deep contemplation. “You apologized, so.”

“Chōsō,” the laugh Suguru lets out is thick, and bitter, and he’s not the one that needs comfort right now. He can’t even look deeper into the room, just rolls his head until he’s looking at the wall closest to him and nothing else. “I hit you.”

“Well, you didn’t hit me—”

Frustration at Chōsō’s kindness boils in Suguru‘s chest and spills through grit teeth. He lets go of the duvet to gesticulate wildly.

“Fucking—put hands on you, pushed you, whatever.”

Chōsō flinches when Suguru’s raises his voice—and rightfully so.

“I—Sorry,” Suguru sighs and rubs a wrist over his eye.

“You’re fine,” Chōsō shakes it off, like he does everything else, like a dog with a wet coat, “I guess…I knew you were having a hard month. A hard six months, honestly—”

“That doesn’t excuse—”

“Let me finish,” Chōsō huffs with a little frustration of his own, and Suguru likes the way it sounds. Get a grip. “Please.”

Suguru swallows. Nods.

“You are my friend,” Chōsō says, like it’s an end-all and be-all, that’s it, close the curtains and the case. “You—people have bad nights, Suguru. Some more than others. I’ve known you for…what, six years? Seven? And, you’ve never done that.”

Chōsō steps closer, and Suguru pushes himself deeper into the hard wood of his headboard.

The issue is—he has done that. That is the only way they knew something was wrong in the first place, because little Suguru had an outburst in kindergarten where he was swearing like a sailor, snatching toys and hitting the kids that would try to take them back. No one knew where he got that behavior from. Episodes, the doctors called them. His sweet and loving parents didn’t know what to do when he understood the concept of suicide at age eight.

Just…dark and emo and depressed, with no apparent reason at all.

“I…I don’t even think I’ve ever seen you drink that much,” Chōsō‘s not pacing, but he’s wandering, and that’s close enough. “And—and you know what? Maybe it’s on me for not checking in when it was so obvious. Like, obviously, you’re a real human being with feelings and like, not some infallible—”

“Don’t blame yourself, Chōsō,” Suguru says unsteady, shaking his head. At this rate, they’re both going to end up in tears, which bodes horrendous for Satoru in the room next door. “That’s not—I don’t—”

That’s not fair.

“I’m not blaming myself, I’m just—”

“I should be able to handle these things on my own, not—”

“But no, Suguru,” Chōsō turns to him, pressing wobbly lips together before taking a deep breath, “You should be able to rely on us, too.”

Suguru gulps past a tight throat.

“Like,” Chōsō debates something, body wavering, before he sits on the bed and takes his hands in a quick move. “We rely on you. So much—we just…we want to be there for you. Too.”

Tears threaten the corners of his eyes, and they get what they want. Suguru inhales through his nose, resting his skull on the headboard and swallows for the fifth time tonight.

He doesn’t come from a broken home. He has two parents with amazing jobs, born and raised in a comfortable middle class. He isn’t severely traumatized by a source external to himself. And, that’s scary—what if, one day, despite the therapy and the medicine, he just fucking snaps and can’t come back? What if, one day, he—

“Okay?”

Chōsō sniffles with expectant, watery eyes—ones that command, even through the tears. Suguru glares him, but it’s half-hearted, and he nods nonetheless.

“Okay.”

“Good,” Chōsō nods back. Then, his shoulders slump, “Now. Um…I can’t sleep.”

Suguru lets out a wet laugh, tugging at the hands Chōsō already cradles. The brunette goes tumbling into the sheets.

“Yeah. C’mon.”

Emergence.

(Satoru screams. So, so good.

“In these, days of days—”

Suguru knew he’d sound good, because anything Suguru can do, Satoru can do better. The crowd screams along with him—a different scream, yes, but screams nonetheless—and Suguru has to remind himself to not get starstruck and miss his cue.

“I wish it all away—”

It’s nothing too loud, nothing too crazy—just enough to hear him beneath the pain, and give Satoru the fail safe he insists on but never uses. He seems to enjoy it though, despite all his whining, and bickering, and tongue-sticking during practice. Satoru Gojo is a diva, yes, but a diva that can execute.

Even you look vaguely proud, Suguru realizes, as you two lock eyes behind Satoru’s bouncing body. You shrug, and mouth the words ‘not bad,’ and Suguru tries to stifle the pride behind his ribs when he responds: ‘Right?’)

“Holy shit, what is—”

“I just—I love this guy so much, man—”

“I love you, too—”

“Are you guys…crying?”

“…This is weird.”

“You—your mind, it’s just so beautiful—”

“Dude—dude, stop, you’re gonna make me cream my jeans, but, emotionally—”

“Oh jeez, they’re drunk, okay—out the bathtub, you two. C’mon!”

I thought I got better, but maybe, I didn’t.

By the time the last few notes on Satoru’s keyboard ring, Suguru is breathless.

Well. He started breathless—they’ve gone through the majority of their set at this point, with only the extremely over-practiced, heavy hitters left, and then an encore—but that was like, nerves and shit. Now, his body is running high on adrenaline, heart thumping through his chest and into his wine colored guitar. He thinks he’s smiling, but he’s not quite sure—he can’t feel his face. Or his fingers, or his toes, or his whole body, for that matter.

No, he’s fucking floating.

Is this how Satoru feels every night?

He can’t quite hear, either—but he knows what it looks like to see a crowd cheer, jump up in down in an asynchronous rhythm that only he understands. He thinks that’s what he sees.

Suguru doesn’t know. He can’t feel his toes.

“Yeah, Oh my God, so hot, right?”

And, there goes Suguru’s high—poof, gone, capeesh, chased into hiding by Satoru and his big fat mouth. The feeling in his toes return, and he remembers where he is.

“Satoru.”

“Mm, yes Daddy, punish me,” Satoru whines into the mic with a smile—it bounces against stuffed bodies and high arena walls—because he knows damn well Twitter is going to have a field day with this. Suguru’s dick twitches anyways, because it’s fucking evil, with an evil little mind of its own, an—

“Get a grip, Satoru,” you laugh, eyebrows raised in partial disgust and amusement. Suguru can’t help but agree—Get a grip, Suguru.

“Ew, I don’t want to grip you,” Satoru sneers. The amusement on your face melts into pure-born disgust, and you cock your neck.

“I don’t want you to grip me either, Loser.”

Chōsō’s sniffles into his own microphone. Suguru looks over his left shoulder, because he swears to God, if Chōsō injured himself again—

He lifts a limp wrist to rub at his eye, “That—It’s just so beautiful.”

Suguru’s heart swells. Then sinks, as the audience fawns and he remembers where he is, again, and his face goes hot.

“Okay,” Suguru kills the stupidly dazed grin on his face and locks in, focusing on the mic and the crowd in front of him. “Um…next song now. Song next, please.”

“Awh, he’s getting shy, guys,” Satoru coos, and Suguru sends him a nasty glare that corrects his posture. With a curled lip and a curdled mood, he grunts, “Fine, next song.”

Then, Satoru turns to the audience and flashes a blinding smile that has girls fake-fainting in the front row. He moves away from the double keyboard with too many buttons, in favor of taking the guitar and the empty mic a little more center stage.

“Anyone feeling kinda hot? ‘Cause I am!”

The crowd roars.

You groan. “This song haunts my nightmares.”

Satoru just snorts as his fingers mindlessly dance along the fret to the new song—a new riff. And, Suguru can finally exhale, moving on from the harrowing emotional journey. He’s happy he did it, happy he sang—and now, he’s happy to move on.

“My girlfriend’s bitchin’ ‘cause I always sleep in—”

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