#groupie reader

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!!