#groupie reader

Night after night, there were thousands of them. He could count, the way you count candles on a cake. By their hearts.

That's the part he didn't tell people. He heard the beat. Every one of them, a melody under the drums. Sam kept the beat the crowd could hear; he kept the beat underneath it, the wet red metronome of a full house.

The constant throng would drive a younger man insane. It didn't drive him anywhere. Not normally. He wanted that on record. He had stood in rooms louder, more crowded and walked out clean. Every time. Ten thousand times. He'd never once given in to temptation.

Instead he learned to listen… like reading the weather. It happened after rebirth. The first steps, if you will. There was a trick, if you wanted to master it.

It wasn't about the pulse. Not the throat. Not even the specific animal instinct of the girl in row five whose heart was going like she'd run here.

Pressure changes.

The warm front.

You had to let it become the room instead of the meal… and then you could stand in it forever. He taught himself that over centuries, one show at a time, and he was— and he would promise you that— very calm about it.

The song ended. Natasha took the next. He only had about four bars, letting him just be a man with a guitar. And that was the moment he made his biggest mistake. It didn't feel like one. But then, it never does.

He looked down. Simple as that.

She was there. Front row. Same six feet of railing she'd owned since they'd left Cleveland, like she signed a lease on it. Sunshine— printed across her tiny tank top.

The pressure needle skipped a beat.

Because here was the thing about the rest of them— the whole seething pit— they knew. Not with their heads or heart. Something deeper. They came to be near the danger. To press up against it. To feel their own hearts beat faster. That speed was instinct, a body doing what a body should do in a room with something like him. He loved them for it. It was the only honest thing about them.

Hers didn't do that.

She stood in the wall of noise with her face tipped up and all he felt was delight. Nothing more. There was no animal in her leaning back from the edge. Because to her, he was the whole entire show. The best night of her week. She got to see a man she thought was beautiful. Her heart was fast, sure. But it was fast the way a kid's was on a carousel. It was fast because she was happy. She was enthralled.

He wanted you to understand what that did to him. The fear he could drink around; the fear was the weather. But she wasn't afraid. He couldn't read that from her. And it drew him in. She had no idea. She trusted him. She decided, with that whole empty radiant head of hers, that he was safe.

And trust— he could tell you now, so no one could ever say he hid it— trust was the one thing he had never understood.

He was fine. He wanted to be so clear about that. He looked back up, hit his mark, sang the next line right on the beat. Not a single soul of that ten thousand knew. That was control.

$6,423.

The figure printed on the paper slip that had slid out of the ATM when you put in your bank card. You knew it before you'd even put it in. It was what you'd earned that summer, working three separate jobs to pay tuition for college.

You were going to be a nurse. It was a good profession, respectable.

Here's the thing about $6,423: it wasn't exactly a lot of money for a college program. It was, however, a staggering amount for a girl with a banged-up old Corolla and the desire for a taste of forbidden fruit.

That's what they were to you. The Sergeant and the Sires. The Sergeant specifically. You were under his thrall.

You'd done the math. More than once. Then once more with an actual calculator, in case your brain was trying to deceive you.

22 shows. Not all of them— you weren't totally insane. 22 of 41 the band had scheduled. One show per state. You had always wanted to see the country, it would be a great way to explore before the crushing weight of a career became obligatory.

The tickets were the easy part: $58 - $95. General admission for the floor was your best bet and buying at the box office, which you'd already done. The woman at the desk had given you a judgemental look, but you didn't care.

$1731 you'd spent so far.

A tight budget. You estimated $1500 for gas, if you kept your speed to below sixty-five. Your car was the one thing you trusted to do its job and it had a comfortable enough backseat that you could cover the windows and sleep there most nights. Motels offered a shower, a more luxurious night when your car wasn't the safest option.

That probably came to $800. You rounded up to $900 because you were being responsible.

Food was your next consideration. One meal a day was manageable, right? You weren't stupid, it had to be something substantial and diners usually offered affordable meals. You guess around $10/day for 42 days. $420. $500 if you wanted a coffee. You'd pack snacks for the road.

$1000 was for opportunistic recreational activities, leaving you $792 for emergencies.

You made a note. It was plenty of cash. Maybe you'd even indulge in some of the band's merch. A dreamy expression washed over your face as you thought about a shirt with The Sergeant's face looking up at you.

You'd figure it out, because people figure things out. You'd been called resourceful. Your parents had said you could do anything you put your mind to.

Except everyone said don't to this.

Your sister said it with the long-suffering patience of someone who knew she wasn't swaying you. Your office manager frowned, saying he couldn't hold any of your regular shifts. The girl you'd been seeing scoffed and used the word unhealthy more than once.

Your mother hadn't said a single word. She knew there was no point in trying. It'd felt worse than anything anyone else had said.

Because when all was said and done, they weren't wrong. You weren't stupid enough to deny it. Your plan was crazy. You were twenty-four, planning to spend your entire education fund on 42 days, 22 of which you'd be standing in the dark, looking up.

Here's what no one understood. What no one in your life seemed to have a category for. In your 24 years on Earth, you had never— not once— felt like you were standing where you were supposed to be. And then it happened. They had come to town. The Sergeant and The Sires. And for two hours, three nights a week, you stood in darkness, in a sea of people with the bass pounding through your feet, and finally every single atom in your body was pointing in the same direction. Your whole being had been drawn to them. To him. Seeing them perform had stirred something deep inside you. And for the first time in your life, you felt alive.

How were you supposed to weigh the cost of being alive against a nursing program? You weren't confused or naive. You'd just done the math and arrived at a different answer. You knew exactly what it cost, you had the number written on a receipt in the glove-box for your Corolla.

So you got in and turned the key.

Backstage smelled like every other backstage did— cold beer, hot cables, the sugar-rot of a fruit tray nobody touched. He loved it, but it was a smell with no pulse.

He was fine. He'd said that already but he wanted it noted.

Sam got the cooler open before his sweat was even dry, tossing the bottles around like it was a totally normal thing. Because to them it was. Except it wasn't beer he was passing, it was TruBlood. The good stuff, the quality O-neg that Yelena bought by the case because to her a happy band was a well-fed band. Steve caught his one-handed, cracking the cap with his thumb. He downed half in one go, the way he did everything— clean, without ceremony. Sam was talking his ear off, some story about a girl from Louisiana, half-laughing into his own bottle.

"Barnes!" Sam lobbed one at him.

He caught it. Like there was ever any doubt. His hands were the last thing to ever forget what they're for. Even the one that didn't quite belong to him.

It was warm. Yelena had done her duty and filled the cooler with hot water, warming the bottles until they were body temperature. It sat in his cold palm while he listened distractedly to Sam. He laughed in the right places. He twisted the cap. But he didn't drink.

He wanted that on the record too. The bottle was open. He was holding it. Anyone watching would say 'there was a man having his dinner'. But that little compass inside, the one that read the weather, it pointed at something else. Something through the hallway. At a carousel heart, beating at a happy gallop. He heard it. He felt it. It consumed him. The warm glass in his hand felt like a prop. A thing to hold so his hands looked busy. So no one would see what he craved.

Natasha had a way of appearing when she wasn't wanted. Silent. Stealthy. She found him by the instrument cases, doing this thing where she didn't look directly at you. She was doing it now, focusing all her energy on coiling a cable around her arm while her own bottle lay sweating and untouched on a case beside her.

"Good show," she said.

"Good show."

"You went somewhere. During 'Bloodletting.' You went somewhere and came back." She cocked her head, finally looking at him.

He told her he was on the beat the whole time. Which was true. He was! Ask any one of the thousands of humans in the crowd. Not one of them felt him leave.

She wrapped the cable slow. "That's not what I asked."

Across the room Sam called his name, wanting him in on the story, to confirm he remembered the girl from Louisiana. He answered, because he must. To keep the room warm, the atmosphere easy— to keep it to just the four of them, their bottles, a good show and the full house behind them. He didn't need Sam or Steve looking at him the way Natasha did. No one else needed to count, to clock that his bottle was still full.

Here was the part he didn't say out loud. You don't hand someone the stake and the cross. But deep down inside he knew. The girl in the crowd came back. The ray of sunshine in the darkness. She was here right now. Yelena had let her sneak in, like a stray cat.

He set the bottle down on the case. Still full. He told himself it was because he wasn't thirsty.

He was very calm about it.

It happened at night, mostly, in the back of the Corolla, adjustable shades pulled down. When the parking lot had gone quiet and there was nothing left for you to think about… but him.

It always started the same way— with his hands. The part of him that seemed to wreck you. Not his voice… although that was its own kind of problem. His hands… you watched them from six feet away for eight nights. The way they moved over the fingerboard, like they owned it, like the guitar was an extension of himself.

There was that moment in the third song where he’d flatten his palm across the strings to kill the ring. The silence hit low in your gut. You thought about those same hands on your skin. Sliding under your shirt. Callused fingertips tracing your ribs. Then lower, cupping your breasts. Thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened. For him.

You thought about being alone with him. Somewhere with an actual door. The details of the room didn't matter. You were always looking at him looking at you.

You thought about him being slow. It was the thing you came back to every night, the thing that made your face burn and your thighs press together in the dark. He’d take his time, undress you like he was learning a new instrument, spread you open on the bed and just look, eyes dark and hungry, taking in every inch of your body.

Then those hands would move, sliding up your inner thighs, thumbs parting slick folds, circling your clit with steady, intimate pressure until you were shaking, dripping for him. He’d push two thick fingers inside, curling them just right while his mouth found your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you moan his name.

You imagined him eating you out— slow, filthy licks, tongue fucking into you while he held your hips down, growling against your pussy as you grind on his face. And when he finally pushed inside you, thick, hard and bare, he’d do it inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction as he stretched and filled you completely.

He’d fuck you deep, hips rolling with the rhythm he used on stage, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other rubbed your clit until you came clenching around his cock, gasping and soaking the sheets.

You imagined him moaning your name, as he buried himself to the hilt and came, voice rough against your ear, hips jerking as he spilled inside you.

Sometimes you didn’t even get that far. Sometimes it was just the idea of his mouth near your ear, breath hot as he whispered exactly what he was going to do to you. How he was going to ruin you for anyone else.

You’d have to stop, press the heels of your hands into your eyes, and laugh at yourself. A grown-ass woman in a Corolla following a band around the country, soaked and aching over a man who didn’t even know you existed.

You fell asleep like that most nights. Warm, stupid, and happy, thighs still slick with the evidence of how badly you wanted him.

You had no idea what you were asking for.

It happened in St. Louis. Number nine, though by then the cities had already started to blur into one long strip of welcome signs and exhaust fumes. You'd have to check the tickets in the glove-box to be sure which cities you'd passed through. The shows, however, were burned into your brain.

This had been a good week. That's what kept going through your mind afterwards. You were well within budget, the Corolla was behaving and you had the cash to splurge on a motel because your neck had opinions on the backseat of your car.

Eleven minutes was all it took. You had left the room to grab ice from around the corner of the complex. For those eleven minutes you were living the life of luxury.

The door was shut when you came back, but the second you crossed the threshold, you knew something was wrong. The same way you knew when Bucky was going to change keys in the middle of a song.

Your duffel was on the bed open. You walked over, resigned to the inevitable. The envelope gone, your wallet with it, both cards, the debit and the one you kept for real emergencies.

They'd left the tickets. All 22 of them. Untouched… because who would want those?

You cancelled the cards, then sat on the end of the bed, redoing the math. $161. It'd been in your jacket pocket. Three-quarters of a gas tank and 22 tickets. The next show was 300 miles west.

The strange thing was, the most obvious thought never arrived. The one where you gave up. Asked for help. Drove home. You waited for it. All night you waited. But it never came. Not even when you called your sister and swore her to secrecy.

Outside the next venue, you met Trish. You didn't find her, she found you. You had arrived early, since there was no where else you could afford to go. Instead you sat on the cold hard ground to contemplate your woes. You were in your denim jacket, covered in pins from each one of the shows you had under your belt. You were spilling your problems to her before she even introduced herself. She didn't give you the oh honey face. She just nodded, like she'd heard it forty times, because she had.

Cash problems, she said, were easy.

That's when she brought it up. Phrased it as a trade. Something clean. Regulated, even. There was an… agency, a three letter acronym, said too fast for you to catch. It was something you'd reflect on later, the size of the thing you chose not to ask. Trish described it exactly like donating blood, except this paid $200. Apparently everyone who come on tour did it. She rolled up her sleeve and showed you the inside of her elbow.

You looked down at the business card she gave you— GGB Ltd. $200 per unit. One a week was fine. Two was fine if you ate well. You did the math right there on the curb, and you knew everything would be alright.

Yelena found him where he'd put himself, as far from anyone as the room allowed— a chair turned backward, arms crossed over the back, watching the door.

She didn't announce herself. She never did. She crossed the room with an economy of movement only she had— all business— and dropped into a crouch behind a cooler she carried. Not the usual . A smaller one. Black, no logo, the kind you didn't leave lying around for anyone to find.

"You're not drinking," she said. Not a question.

"'m fine."

"Yeah, you said." She popped the latch. "Three cities in a row… you said. You think I don't count the bottles, Barnes? I count everything. It's my job."

He started to answer but she held up a hand without looking at him, and then she took the bottle out.

It wasn't TruBlood. He knew that before she'd even fully extracted it— knew it from the way the smell reached him a half-second ahead of his eyes. A glass bottle, yes, the same shape but unlabeled. Inside it something that wasn't the usual synthetic crap she offered them.

"B-neg," Yelena said, turning it in the low light. "Real. Fresh— not long from the host. Don't ask who, because I don't, and neither should you." She set it on the case in front of him with a small, delicate clink. "You've been walking around like a live wire and it's making the others nervous, even if they're too polite to say. So… eat something real. On me."

He looked at it.

For a moment he didn't move at all. That was the last of his control. The long-suffering habit he spent centuries perfecting. Never once letting it hold him by the collar. He told himself he wasn't going to now. He'd made it this long.

But the bottle sat there and as it caught the light, he could hear it, actually hear the way it whispered to him— a slick warmth that told the story of the person it had once belonged to.

He picked it up.

The screw-on top came away under his thumb effortlessly. He meant to take one sip. He honestly, genuinely meant it— just to taste, to be civilized about it, to prove to himself that he was a man having a drink and not a starving animal salivating at a trough.

The first swig undid it all.

It hit the back of his throat and something in him simply woke… some old animal that had been asleep, pretending to be furniture. After that there was no sipping. The rest vanished in seconds. He didn't decide it. It was gone before decision had entered into the equation, the bottle tipped all the way up, his throat working, the whole rare impossible pint emptied into him like water into parched ground.

He set the bottle down more carefully than he'd done anything else that night.

The room felt different now. He felt different— warm for the first time in decades, lit up, every sense turned suddenly to its sharpest setting. There was a glint in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a brightness that had nothing to do with the overhead bulb. His fangs had come down without permission, more obvious now, and he didn't bother to hide them. He ran his tongue along them slow, cleaning the last of the red from his lips.

Yelena watched him with her arms folded. She didn't look pleased, more like someone confirming a suspicion.

"There he is," she said, a smirk on her lips.

You almost didn't go back. That was the truth of it. A truth you'd never tell anyone, because it sounded insane out loud. There was a woman with an official lanyard who singled you out after the show. She read your name off a list— your name, the one you'd signed in the parking lot for GGB— and for one chilling moment, you'd thought it was about the blood. That someone had found out and you were in trouble.

But she'd just smiled and said someone wanted to say hi, and would you follow her, and your heart had done something complicated and enormous in your chest.

So there you were. Backstage, past security, in a concrete hallway that smelled like stale beer and something smoky. You were wearing the Sunshine shirt— your favorite, one you'd washed so many times the print had started to crack. You'd have worn something sexier if you'd known. But you hadn't, and the shirt was clean, and was the one that felt most like you.

You'd pulled your left sleeve down before she brought you in. Habit now. Nobody's business.

And then he was just— there.

You forgot how to be a person for a second. The honest truth of it. You'd stood six feet from this man for eleven different nights but you'd never once been so close to him. And there was a difference, an enormous difference, that no amount of front-row devotion had prepared you for. On stage he was a shape in the light. Here he was a man, tall and still, close enough to touch, and he was looking directly at you.

"You're the one on the barricade," he said. "Front row. Every night."

He knew. He'd noticed. You made a sound that was supposed to be a word. And wasn't.

His voice did something to you. You'd heard it sing to ten thousand people and you'd thought that was the thing, that was the reason, but this was different— low, unhurried, pitched just for you. It went straight through you like the bass through the floor, settling somewhere behind your sternum. You felt, absurdly, like you already knew him. Like you'd known him a long time. Like all those nights in the dark had been a conversation and this was him finally answering.

"I— yeah," you managed. "That's me. I've been following the tour. Since Cleveland." And then, because your mouth had apparently decided to run without you: "Since before Cleveland, actually, since you played my town, that's— that's how it started, I saw you and I just, I couldn't not, you know?"

You winced. You sounded like exactly what you were. But he didn't laugh at you. He tilted his head a little, the way you'd seen him do on stage between songs, and he listened, like your babbling was worth listening to, and God, you could have died right there and been happy about it.

"Eleven cities," he said. "That's a long way to drive for a band."

"For you," you said, before you could stop yourself. "I mean— the band. Mostly. Kinda. Yeah."

Heat crawled up your neck. It was worth it, because something crossed his face when you said it— something you couldn't read, something that flickered and was gone— he stepped closer, and you didn't step back. You'd never step back. You'd spent your whole savings, slept in a Corolla, sat in a folding chair in a parking lot so you could stand exactly this close. Now that you were here, every atom in your body was doing the thing it only ever did in the pit. Pointing. At him.

"You drove all that way," he said, almost to himself, "and you're not even a little afraid?"

You laughed. It seemed like such a strange thing to say.

"Why would I be afraid of you?"

He smiled, close-lipped. It didn't quite reach the brightness in his eyes.

"No," he said. "Course you're not."

He knew it. That was the thing that stopped his unbeating heart cold. He knew that scent— had known it for weeks, had felt it move through him warm, rare and impossible. B-negative.

Not long from the host, she said. Don't ask me who. And he hadn't. Here was the answer standing in front of him in a washed-soft shirt with the word Sunshine painted across it.

It was her. The blood he'd drunk was hers.

Something in him went extremely quiet and impossibly loud at the same time. A trance, almost— the room narrowed to a single point— her. Everything else felt gray and irrelevant. He'd already tasted her.

It was still in him— her blood— singing, part of him now, and his body had learned the shape of her. And it wanted the rest. Craved it.

He noticed everything. He couldn't stop noticing. The sweat still drying at her hairline from dancing on a packed floor for him. The flush on her cheeks that had bloomed the second he'd stepped closer, nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with him. The line of her throat. The way she held herself, tipped slightly toward him like a plant toward a window, all unguarded warmth pointed straight at the most dangerous thing in the room.

She was beautiful. He let himself see it, which was its own mistake. Not the painted-on beauty of the people who usually made it back here— something better, something free and unfiltered, sweat, a cracked-print shirt and eyes so wide open they hurt to look at.

Under all of it, beneath the shirt, the flush, the babbling and the light, was that sound.

Her heart.

He could hear it the way he heard everything, but this was different, this was loud and strong, that happy carousel-gallop, the healthy, fullest sound in the world, a heart without fear. He could see it, if he let his eyes drop half an inch. The pulse in her neck. The soft flutter under her skin, keeping time, offering.

B-negative moves through her and he had tasted it, he knew what it was, and knowing was so much worse than not.

His fangs came down.

He didn't decide it. There was no deciding left in him. They lengthened against his tongue, sharp, eager and entirely beyond his control. He pressed his lips shut and prayed she couldn't see. She couldn't. She was still talking, still glowing, still asking him something with that open, unafraid face.

Why would I be afraid of you?

And there— right there— some old animal part of her did clock it. Just for a second. A flicker behind her eyes, a small instinctive stutter in that big strong heart, the faintest spike of something that wasn't quite fear, gone almost before it arrived.

It should have shamed him. It didn't. God help him, it did the opposite. That small spike, that tiny honest jolt of a body recognizing a predator— lit him up. It made the craving worse, sharper, unbearable, because now she was afraid and warm and she still wasn't stepping back. The wanting rose up in him like a tide with no shoreline.

He wanted to drink. Plain. Simple. He wanted to close the distance and put his mouth to that flutter in her throat and take what was already partly his, and keep taking. He knew— with a clarity that was almost peaceful— exactly how it would go. How her heart would change its tune. How the light would go out by degrees.

That was what stopped him. Not decency. Not restraint, whatever he'd told himself, whatever he'd told her. Just the certainty— cold and complete— that if he started he would not stop. Could not. There would be no sip. There was never going to be a just a sip with her. He would empty her right there in the concrete hallway with her favorite shirt on and her hands reaching for him. It would be the best thing he had ever felt, and then she would be gone. Forever.

So he held still. He pulled back on the centuries-old instinct inside him and smiled, close-lipped, hiding the teeth.

"No," he said softly. "Course you're not."

choso notices you before you ever say a word to him.

you’re in the front row again, leaned up against the edge of the stage like it’s your damn throne. your eyes glint under the soft red backlight, and choso swears they never leave him, not his brother on drums, not the crowd pushing and swaying, just him.

he tries not to make it obvious.

it’s not like you’re the only fan who’s been to more than one show. hell, you’re probably not even the loudest. but something about you sticks. the way you dress like you don’t care but you absolutely do. the way your lips part every time he hits that low note in the second verse of dead wires. the way you never scream his name, just watch. always watching.

and god, he’s starting to live for it.

the venue is small tonight. grimy floor, too many bodies packed too close, the mic cuts in and out. it’s a dive bar stage with cables running like veins across the floor, and yet, you look like the only thing that belongs here.

you tap a cigarette out of a soft pack after the show and step outside into the humid night air. choso’s still backstage when he catches the faintest whiff of tobacco on your jacket as you pass the curtain. he turns to see the back of your head disappear through the door, a ghost trailing smoke.

he’s quiet on the ride back.

yuji teases him about it, of course. says he gets that look in his eye when he’s interested. choso denies it. says he’s just tired. says he’s not looking for anything right now. says he doesn’t even know your name.

but he will.

god, he will.

the fourth show you show up to, you bring someone.

not a boyfriend. you make sure choso sees that when you let him buy you a drink but don’t let him touch your waist.

choso doesn’t know when he started watching you that closely, but now it’s like a reflex. like breathing.

you wear a black tank top that sticks to your back with sweat, and the words to his lyrics painted on your arm in what looks like sharpie. you mouth along every word and smile once, just once, when his eyes find yours during the bridge.

you don’t approach him after the show. not even when he lingers by the bar too long, not even when he takes the long way around the venue just to pass where you’re standing, not even when he waits outside, pretending to check his phone.

he should hate that.

he should hate the way you ignore him like he’s anyone else.

but he doesn’t.

he learns your name from maki.

of course it’s maki who talks to you first. she’s always been better with people, always faster to read the room. she joins the band for a few songs on bass and calls you over after the set, drinks in hand, dragging you into their haze of post-show warmth like you’ve always belonged.

you lean against the table beside choso, cool and effortless.

he doesn’t say much. he never does. but he watches the way your fingers toy with your glass, the way your tongue pokes out just slightly when you concentrate on the condensation.

he says your name for the first time in a hoarse whisper when you’re already gone.

“why do you keep coming?” choso finally asks one night, voice low, guitar case still strapped across his back. his shoulders are damp from the heat of the stage.

you arch a brow. “why do you keep looking at me?”

it’s the first time you’ve spoken more than a hello.

he swallows. “maybe i want to know what you hear in the music.”

you hum. “maybe i want to know what you mean when you play it.”

there’s a pause.

you light another cigarette and offer him one. he doesn’t smoke. you smile like you expected that.

and then you turn and walk off down the alley like you didn’t just reach inside his chest and twist something vital.

he watches the smoke drift behind you.

he breathes it in anyway.

the fifth time he sees you, it’s different.

you’re already backstage, somehow. probably got in with maki again. choso doesn’t say anything when he sees you perched on a ratty couch, sipping a warm beer and thumbing through a worn-out setlist.

you don’t look at him, not right away. but he can feel the pull like gravity.

you speak first.

“you wrote buried static, didn’t you?”

choso nods. he feels suddenly exposed.

you nod, too. “figured. it felt… quiet. not like a whisper. like screaming into a void that doesn’t echo.”

he blinks. something clicks.

you shrug. “it’s not a love song. but it’s lonely. and that’s worse.”

he swallows. hard. “you get that?”

you finally look up at him.

“yeah. i get it.”

he wants you.

not like the way he used to want other people. not in the one-night, hotel room, tour-high kind of way.

he wants to know what kind of music makes you cry.

he wants to hear your voice hoarse from singing along.

he wants to see you wear his hoodie when the sun comes up and the bus hasn’t even started moving yet.

but you’re still dancing around him like smoke. touching his wrist in the dark and then pulling away. biting your lip and smiling like you know. like you’re in control.

maybe you are.

he doesn’t care.

choso hears your laugh before he sees you.

it cuts through the static of muffled bass and clinking bottles, sharp and warm and so damn real. he’s in the back of the venue again, tuning a busted cable, trying to pretend like he’s focused. but that sound, your sound, hits him like a memory he doesn’t own.

you’re sitting on a broken amp with your legs crossed, maki at your side, laughing about something he’ll never know. you’re not looking at him, and you haven’t all night.

it’s been three weeks since your last show.

three weeks since you leaned in close after the set and murmured, “you play like you’re bleeding.”

he hasn’t stopped thinking about it.

“she’s not gonna chase you, man,” yuji mutters beside him, half-drunk and too perceptive for his own good. “you’re gonna have to do something.”

choso knows that. he’s known it for weeks. but the thing is—

he wants to earn it.

after the set, the dressing room’s too full of people who don’t matter.

but you’re there, in the far corner, curled up in a beat-up denim jacket that looks borrowed from someone else. he wants to ask if you’re cold. wants to give you his instead.

but you beat him to it.

“you gonna keep watching me from across rooms, or is that just your whole personality?”

you’re teasing, but the heat in your stare pins him in place.

he tries to play it cool. “you gonna keep showing up just to not talk to me?”

you smirk, and it twists something behind his ribs.

“maybe i like making you work for it.”

and god, he wants to work for it.

for you.

it starts slow. painfully slow.

you start showing up earlier.

he starts saving you a drink. never hands it to you, just sets it on a table nearby and pretends it’s not yours until you take it.

you ask about his songs.

he asks about your favorite ones, even the ones that aren’t his.

you smoke less around him.

he starts sitting closer anyway.

you don’t flirt, not like people expect you to. it’s quieter than that. your fingertips brush his when you pass him a pick. your shoulder touches his when you squeeze into the van after loadout. you hold his gaze a second too long and then look away.

and it drives him insane.

but he says nothing.

because you’re still not his.

not yet.

it’s storming outside a venue in detroit when something shifts.

you’re soaked. your eyeliner’s running. you’re shivering in the green room and someone offers you a hoodie, but you wait. wait until choso notices. wait until he shrugs off his own and wordlessly hands it to you.

you pull it over your head and breathe in the smell of him.

then you glance at him like you know what you’re doing.

“thanks.”

he just nods.

but something curls hot and desperate in his chest.

you don’t give it back.

there’s a night, two weeks later, when it’s just the two of you.

yuji and maki are off somewhere. the others are passed out. it’s dark, quiet, humming with the low electric buzz of amplifiers still cooling.

you’re sitting next to him on the couch, knees tucked under you, one of his demo tapes spinning in the background.

“you ever write songs about people?” you ask, voice soft, low.

choso stares at the ceiling. “…yeah.”

“anyone i’d know?”

he glances at you. your face is unreadable. lips parted just barely, lashes casting shadows.

he swallows. “…maybe.”

you don’t press.

but you scoot a little closer.

and that’s worse than a kiss.

because it feels like one.

you leave for two weeks.

you don’t say why. you don’t text. you don’t show up at any shows. you vanish like a verse cut from a song.

choso doesn’t ask questions.

but he keeps checking the crowd. every. single. night.

keeps glancing at the door when the set ends.

keeps writing lyrics that never make it to tape.

and then—

you’re back.

wearing his hoodie. looking like you never left.

you don’t explain.

you just sit next to him after the show and pass him a cigarette.

“miss me?”

he doesn’t smile.

but he lights it and takes a drag.

“yeah.”

it finally happens at soundcheck.

not a kiss. not even a touch.

but your hand brushes his on the neck of his guitar, helping him tune a string, and you lean in just barely.

“that’s the right pitch,” you whisper.

he watches you.

“yeah,” he says softly. “it is.”

you look up.

and for the first time, you don’t pull away.

im going to continue this, i just didnt want to make it too long!! i saw fanart that inspired me to write this a while back, but i cant find it for the life of me. as always, i hope this was enjoyable and thank yeww for reading! ❤️

the hotel is quieter than usual.

no afterparty. no noise bleeding under the doors. no distractions.

just a hallway humming with fluorescent buzz, thin carpets, and walls too beige for the kind of tension curling in your chest.

choso’s door is three steps ahead of you.

you shouldn’t be here.

you both know that.

but you followed him out of the venue anyway.

close behind, close enough to brush shoulders in the elevator. close enough to hear the uneven beat of his breath.

neither of you has said a word since the show ended.

he unlocks the door. steps inside. doesn’t turn around.

but he holds it open—silent invitation.

you cross the threshold like it’s a cliff.

the room is dim. one lamp on. tv off.

the air smells like clean sheets, cigarette smoke, and the faint tang of guitar strings.

he shrugs off his hoodie, tosses it on the chair.

you recognize it. the same one he gave you. the same one you still keep balled up at the bottom of your bed.

he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded in his hair.

you don’t move at first. just watch him.

he’s quiet like he always is.

but it’s a charged kind of quiet.

like the silence after a scream.

“you shouldn’t have sent me that demo,” you say finally.

his voice is low. raw. “i had to.”

“why?”

he lifts his head.

his eyes are dark, tired, unguarded.

haunted.

“because it’s you. all of it. every line. every note.”

your heart stutters.

“that wasn’t a love song,” you say.

he shakes his head. “no.”

“then what was it?”

his hands flex in his lap. “a warning.”

you take a step closer.

your voice is quieter now. “for me or for you?”

his gaze cuts to you—sharp. trembling.

“both.”

you stand between his knees now.

his breath hitches.

your legs are bare. your hands are clenched. your whole body’s screaming at you to do something reckless.

but neither of you moves.

not yet.

“you scare the shit out of me,” he says suddenly.

you blink.

“what?”

his voice cracks.

“you make me write songs i don’t know how to finish.”

and fuck.

fuck.

you reach for him.

just your fingertips, light against his jaw. just enough for him to flinch—not away, but into the touch. like he’s wanted it longer than he knows how to admit.

he looks up at you, breathing heavy. “if i touch you right now, i’m not stopping.”

your heart climbs into your throat.

“then don’t touch me yet.”

his brows pinch. “what?”

“just—let me stay here for a second.”

your hand lingers on his face. thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

his lips part.

but you don’t kiss him.

you won’t.

not until he knows.

“this isn’t a game,” you whisper. “i’m not another song you forget how to end.”

he shakes his head. slow. solemn. “you’re the only one i need to end right.”

you lean in—so close your breath grazes his lips.

he tenses. waits.

but you pull back.

just an inch.

just enough.

you sleep on top of the covers that night.

fully clothed. curled into opposite sides of the bed like a storm might roll through the sheets if either of you dares to move.

you don’t touch.

but in the dark, he whispers,

“can i write about this?”

you whisper back,

“only if it ruins you a little.”

and he smiles.

the morning is too bright.

sunlight slices through the cheap hotel curtains and carves sharp shapes on the bedspread. your eyes burn. not from the light—no, from the fact that you didn’t sleep. not really. not with him breathing so close. not with your body aware of every shift, every turn of his in the sheets.

you’d stayed on your side.

so had he.

but neither of you meant it.

the distance between you felt like a line drawn in sand—fragile, temporary, one that would be wiped away the moment one of you moved.

you think maybe he almost did.

at 3:42 a.m.

you’d felt it—his hand twitch, the sheets shift, the brief warmth of him reaching toward your side of the bed before he froze, stopped himself.

and now the sun is rising, and the silence is louder than ever.

you sit up first.

rub the sleep from your face. reach for your phone. check the time.

he shifts beside you.

you feel the movement before you hear his voice, low and rough with sleep.

“…did you dream?”

you blink.

“what?”

he’s on his side now, head propped up, one arm tucked beneath his cheek.

“you were breathing hard,” he says. “like you were running from something.”

you exhale.

your voice is flat. “maybe i was."

a beat of silence.

then—

“were you running from me?”

you look at him.

really look at him.

his eyes are softer now. no stage lights. no noise. just a boy in a band too good at hiding feelings and too bad at letting go.

“no,” you say. “i was running toward something.”

his throat bobs.

and neither of you speaks again until you’re dressed, shoes on, standing awkwardly near the door like this thing between you is too big to pack.

you open the door.

he stops you with a hand on your wrist.

not gripping. not pulling. just holding.

“come to the show tonight,” he says. “please.”

your voice catches in your throat.

“i haven’t missed one.”

“i know.” he looks down at your wrist, then back at you. “but this one’s different.”

you nod.

and leave before you can ask what that means.

that night — venue: basement bar, sold out

the room is buzzing.

electric. tense. packed shoulder to shoulder with bodies that don’t know they’re about to witness something private.

you can feel it in the air.

choso’s been quiet all night.

barely spoke to yuji. didn’t let maki into the green room. refused to rehearse the new song.

you’re pressed up against the side of the stage when the lights go low. the first two songs are old favorites—static bleed, nervewire—loud and raw, like muscle memory.

but then the lights drop to just one spotlight.

and he steps up to the mic alone.

guitar slung low.

hood up.

eyes closed.

he speaks into the mic, voice tight.

“this one’s not on the record.”

the crowd quiets.

“it’s not finished. but… the person it’s about knows the ending already.”

and then he starts to play.

you know it from the first chord.

it’s your song.

the demo. the one he played over the phone. but it’s fuller now. rawer. and the lyrics—god, the lyrics—

“you’re a bruise i press just to feel again

you’re the breath i hold when i want to drown

you’re the silence between my sentences

you’re the only one who sticks around.”

your knees nearly give out.

you grip the edge of the stage like it’ll keep you from crumbling.

he doesn’t look at you.

but you know the song is yours.

the way his voice breaks on the third verse. the way his fingers tremble when he strums the chorus.

the crowd is silent.

when he finishes, he doesn’t bow. doesn’t smile.

just looks out at the sea of faces, straight through them—straight to you.

and then he says into the mic:

“that was the warning.”

after the set, you don’t wait for him backstage.

you’re already in the alley when he finds you, breathless, sweaty, eyes still burning from what you just heard.

he stops a few feet away.

his voice is hoarse. broken.

“you heard it?”

you nod. “every word.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t push.

“did you mean what you said?” you ask.

he stares at you like he’s drowning.

“i never mean anything more than i do when i sing.”

you step forward.

this time, you’re the one who reaches.

hand curling into his shirt. fist pressed against his chest like you’re checking if that song lives there still.

“then why didn’t you kiss me?” you whisper.

his voice is airless. “because i want to do it right.”

you look at him.

look through him.

“then do it right.”

he does.

god, he does.

his hands cup your face so gently it hurts. his mouth hovers over yours, breath trembling, body held taut like he’s been holding this in for years.

and when he finally kisses you—

it’s not fireworks.

it’s release.

like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. like a song that’s been stuck in your throat for too long.

his lips are soft. slow. reverent.

like he’s apologizing for every second he made you wait.

like he’s promising never to stop writing.

he doesn’t let go of you for a long time.

not after the kiss. not after the taste of you is already fading from his mouth.

not even when the alley grows colder and the weight of what just happened settles over both of you like dust after a collapse.

your fingers are curled into the hem of his shirt, fists pressed tight like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you blink.

he won’t.

he won’t.

not now.

not after that.

the walk back to the hotel is quiet.

he doesn’t reach for your hand, and you don’t offer it—but you walk close, steps in sync, like your bodies have learned each other’s rhythm by accident.

he opens the door for you.

doesn’t say anything when you follow him inside.

you sit on opposite ends of the bed again, but this time, there’s no distance.

just silence—comfortable, almost holy.

his voice finally breaks it, soft and hoarse.

“i thought if i kissed you, it’d ruin it.”

you glance over.

he’s staring at the floor, hands between his knees. his shoulders tense.

“i’ve never wanted something this bad and not touched it,” he continues. “not wanted to ruin it, just—needed it too much. like if i did the wrong thing, you’d stop looking at me the way you do.”

you bite the inside of your cheek.

“…how do i look at you?”

he lifts his head.

and god, the ache in his eyes. like someone who’s starved for warmth and just now realized how close the fire is.

“like you hear something no one else hears.”

your chest tightens.

you crawl across the bed, slow and quiet, until your knees are tucked beneath you and your hand is on his.

“you don’t ruin things, choso.”

his throat works. “i have. i do. i will.”

“not this.”

he looks up, and you let your fingers slide between his—careful, slow.

he lets you. grips back, tight.

“you didn’t kiss me because you were scared of breaking it,” you say. “but you kissed me because you knew it could break you.”

his lashes flutter. his breath stutters.

and when he whispers, “yeah,”

it’s not fear.

it’s relief.

that night, you sleep the way you haven’t since you met him.

in his arms. skin warm against skin. clothes on. legs tangled.

there’s nothing sexual in it.

not yet.

not tonight.

tonight, he holds you like a lyric.

like a verse he needs to memorize before it’s gone.

like you’re the sound that keeps him from falling asleep in silence.

and when he breathes into your hair, he whispers,

“please don’t leave when this ends.”

you wake to the sound of soft guitar strings.

he’s on the floor, knees bent, back against the bed, hair tied up messily with a chord from his amp.

you sit up slowly, blanket slipping off your shoulders.

he doesn’t look at you, but his voice reaches.

“i didn’t think i’d write again after last year.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes. “what happened last year?”

his fingers still.

“…i broke something. someone.”

the room holds the breath between you.

you slide to the edge of the bed, feet touching the floor near his.

“do you regret it?”

he shakes his head.

“i regret not trying harder. not slowing down. not listening.”

he strums once—soft. minor key. aching.

“that’s why i listen to you.”

your voice is small. “you do?”

“every time you’re near, i hear things sharper. the buzz in the room. the tension in the air. the way you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

your chest aches.

he finally looks up at you, and his voice cracks:

“you make me feel like music again.”

that night, he plays your song again at the show.

this time, he names it.

“this one’s called feedback. it’s the sound you get when the mic’s too close to the amp—loud, ugly, dangerous. but sometimes, it’s the only way to know something’s really alive.”

and then he plays it.

with full band.

with new chords.

with new lyrics.

“she burns where she stands

but i keep chasing the heat

even when it scars me—

i’d rather be hurt than incomplete.”

the crowd screams.

you don’t.

you just cry, silently, because he’s never sung so loudly in his life.

you don’t go back inside right away.

not after the show, not after the noise. not after that song.

you just… stand.

on the hotel balcony.

wrapped in the hotel’s stolen robe and your own stunned silence, hands curled around a mug of something warm you’re not really drinking.

the night is thick with city air—warm, metallic, laced with old rain and something newer. softer.

he’s behind you.

you don’t hear him at first, but you feel him.

the soft tread of socked feet on cracked tile, the shift in air pressure, the quietest breath in the dark.

“you okay?” he asks.

you nod, though your throat is still full.

he steps beside you, hoodie sleeves pushed up, wrists pale in the moonlight. his hair’s down now—half-dried from the shower, curling at the ends.

you glance at him.

he’s looking up. at nothing. maybe at the stars.

“you didn’t have to name it after me,” you say.

he glances down.

“i didn’t name it after you.”

you frown.

he takes a breath, voice low.

“i named it because of you.”

and god.

that wrecks you more than the song ever did.

he sits beside you, on the old patio chair with peeling paint. you stay standing. it feels easier that way—easier not to fall into him when your ribs are still buzzing from everything he gave you on stage.

your voice is soft. careful.

“you ever think about what this is gonna look like when it’s not in the dark?”

he looks up. “what do you mean?”

“this.” you gesture between you. “us. offstage. in daylight. without an encore to drown out the quiet.”

he watches you for a long second. doesn’t speak.

and then, finally:

“every day.”

your lips part, but no words come out.

he rubs a thumb along his knuckles, quiet.

“i’ve been trying to figure out how to keep this real when everything around me feels… temporary.”

you exhale, chest tight.

“it doesn’t have to be temporary.”

his eyes flick to yours.

and then he whispers, almost like he’s afraid saying it will break it:

“you’re the only thing that doesn’t feel like a phase.”

you finally sit.

not next to him.

on him.

you climb into his lap without a word, blanket still draped around your shoulders, and tuck your knees to either side of his hips.

he goes still.

his hands hover for a second—then land. light on your thighs. steady. grounding.

you rest your forehead to his.

“you know i’m not going anywhere, right?”

his breath catches.

you nod, just barely, brushing your nose against his.

“you don’t have to rush,” you murmur. “you don’t have to call it love. not yet. but i need to know you’re not just singing at me.”

his hands tighten on your legs. not possessive. not desperate.

present.

“i’m not,” he breathes. “i’ve never meant anything more.”

you don’t kiss.

not tonight.

instead, he presses his lips to your collarbone. slow. reverent. like a bow after a final set.

you bury your fingers in his hair.

and for a long time, you just sit there.

his chest against yours. your breath warming his shoulder.

no music. no noise. no crowd.

just heartbeats.

and the soft hum of two people learning how to stay.

i think the end of this lil mini fic is nearing, maybe 1-2 more parts. im not positive yett heheh. i hope you enjoyed and thank yewww for reading!!