[mamashima]

"WHERE SHOULD I GO?"

CYBERCH!CK69 JUST SIGNED IN! — PUMA 22, she/they, black. katsuki’s favorite bimbo. INFJ-T, virgo, pansexual. multi-fandom blog (mha + jjk), (n)sfw blog, minors and ageless blogs DNI! eijirou’s baby mama. music enthusiast, aggressive writer. your favorite girl next door.

"THAT DEPENDS ON WHERE YOU WANT TO END UP."

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requests — headcanons [0/5] | thirsts [0/5] — OPEN.

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

[mamashima]

HE’S ALL THAT, AND A BAG OF CHIPS!

❤︎ SYNOPSIS: it’s a high school reunion for jujutsu high, a religious school hidden deep in the woods. you don’t want to attend, but do—and don’t regret it. apparently, Kentō nanami, that little loser you had a crush on in high school, is officially…hot?

❤︎ CONTENT: non-sorcery!au, prom, non-linear story, light hurt/comfort, frenemies to lovers lowk, making out…18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.

❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: semi-unrelated to this fic—high school!au geto is like…chad from hsm, in the sense that he says he doesn’t dance while dancing, and then fucks ryan right after. yk?

♫ NOW PLAYING: seems like old times, vaughn monroe ver.

read on ao3 | 8k words | the barbie ad | masterlist.

TO BE HONEST, you don’t even want to be here.

For you, high school was…an era. In the moment? You had a blast. Looking back? You wish someone had put you on a leash, or placed a shock collar around your neck to buzz every time you did something socially unacceptable. What the fuck were you wearing?

You didn’t have much cognizance of the world around you until college. You barreled through life like the fastest bullet train in Japan—nose-first at 320 kilometers per hour, a little too noisy and definitely too friendly. You had a hand dipped in every clique, every social pot you could find. It took some time, but you found your people—and got comfortable under stairs for lunches, went to arcades and KFC’s just before closing. That summer before college was the highlight of your life.

(Even if your ‘people’ included Satoru Gojō.)

You and Utahime send twin glares across the long limo as Satoru pops a bottle of champagne, just as the car rolls to a stop in front of the venue. He winks at the appalled look on your faces behind a pair of black rimmed Diors.

“What?” He asks, innocent, spreading his arms in a shrug, cork in one hand and bottle in the other. Then, before taking a swig, he catches your eye. “Just because you’re nervous to see Nanami, doesn’t mean you can take it out on me.”

You manage to flip Satoru off before reverie comes over you like warm water.

Ah, Kentō.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have a small crush on the guy back in high school. Okay, maybe more than a small crush, but like, hear me out—

He was handsome, and polite, and kind, yet always managed to put Satoru in his place in such a satisfying way. You’re sure you got on his nerves, but in your memory, he was always sweet to you. Especially about…that whole prom thing.

Your rose tinted memory sings Kentō, with bubbles and roses and a pink background. Funnily enough, he feels like the one that got away.

(Plus, you had a whole thing for emo fringes, back then—don’t even worry about it. One bad boyfriend, and you outgrew your incel-tech-nerd infatuation real quick. Though, Kentō still rings loud and true. Exceptions, for the one that got away.)

He didn’t share many classes with you. Kentō was an academic powerhouse, and you, a perfectly average student. It wasn’t until he transferred into your French II class that you got an excuse to talk to the guy. And, wow, what an excuse it was.

Not that any of it matters now. You’re sure he’s some tech CEO with a girlfriend who’s probably out of his league, possibly wants his money, and hopefully, also loves him. You wonder how much he’s changed—if he’s changed at all. He seemed like a guy who always knew who he was.

“Satoru, you’re not going in with that,” Suguru sighs, and grabs the bottle from slim fingers. Prosecco sloshes over the top against a tight grip, but eventually, Satoru lets it happen with a pout.

“You guys are no fun.”

Shōko is the first to get out. You all single file of the fancy white clown car, and Suguru double checks his phone to ensure it’s the right location. You take a deep breath, and kind of wish it wasn’t.

“O-kay,” Satoru hems, skirting in front of the group. “Everyone got their license, registration, and seat belts buckled with hands on ten and two?”

You blink. So slowly, because—

“How does he have this much energy after a full work day,” Shōko sighs, tossing her empty KFC Diet Coke into a nearby trashcan. (You had to make a pit stop, for old times sake.) “I don’t get it.”

“Allegedly? Cocaine,” you nod, and Utahime points at you with a snap and raised eyebrows, as if to say, yeah, actually.

“Let’s just go inside,” Suguru says, giving you and Shōko and gentle nudge on the shoulder, with a chuckle that betrays him. It earns him a pinch to the spleen.

You wish you had more champagne on the way—maybe downed that bottle Satoru opened before his private limo sped off, and left you with a lack of inexpensive ways home. The bar isn’t particularly quiet, and the second you step past the door, your heart is in your throat.

Like, it’s fine—it’s made of dark walls and floating plants and hexagonal shapes. Something rich, classy, and definitely not your speed. Most of the booths are full, whether it be other ex-students or retired teachers, but no…

No Kentō.

Fucking—Why are you looking?

With a sigh, you follow the rest of your group to a large half-crescent booth in the far back, where mood lighting gets dim in the corners, save for a small exposed bulb hanging above the table. Ideally, you can just camp out here for the rest of the night, and not have to talk to anyone, right?

Everyone shuffles in, just like the limo—with flat hands and flexing thighs. You end up on the edge, and feel a little too exposed for it.

“So,” Utahime bounces, resting her elbows on the table, “who are we the most excited to see tonight?”

“Oh, Yaga for sure. Gotta see if he got grumpier with age,” Satoru snorts.

Shōko looks away, into nowhere, with contemplative finger on her lips. “Y’know, I think he was only grumpy when you were around.”

Satoru gives her a knowing look over his sunglasses, and taps his temple twice. “Because he was intimidated by my mind.”

“Your mind is a hellscape,” Suguru says, scooting to stand from the opposite corner of the booth. “Anyone want anything?”

“Ooh! Aperol Spritz.”

“Mm…I dunno. What beer do they have?”

“White wine! Specifically a Sauvignon Blanc, specifically a New Zealand.”

“Okay, is there a way for them to make me a Shirley Temple, and, like…put alcohol in it? Would that be disrespectful to Shirley.”

Suguru falters with his phone in hand, and sighs.

“…Just text me.”

Everyone clamors their personalized responses, and Suguru disappears into the crowd. Thank God for group chats—everyone sends what they want to order, in their own time. (And Satoru, never, because he’s delusional, and thinks Suguru is just going to remember all that. Except, Suguru might.) Utahime eyes the fancy design on the ceiling.

“Did JJH get more money after we graduated, or is it just me? This place is nice.”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand, “Yeah, it just never went to the dorms. The year before us had prom on a yacht.”

“Wow,” Shōko laughs something bitter, and shakes her head. “They have their favorites.”

“We were a shit year,” you acquiesce. Honestly, if you were a teacher and had to put up with your class’ bullshit, you would’ve agreed to stuff them in the smelly and semi-dilapidated gym for prom, too. “Remember when we snuck out and flipped the chairs in every unlocked classroom we could find?”

“Good times,” Satoru nods, grinning, and tucks a hand behind his head. “When you guys were actually fun.”

“Or immature,” Utahime shrugs.

Satoru types something quick on his phone. Before you can write it off as something casual, something assumedly sent to Suguru, he catches your eye before it drifts, and winks. Again. You kick his shin under the table—his long ass legs were encroaching to your side, anyway.

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” Satoru whines in that way he does when he’s definitely up to something, like you’ve offended him, and swings his arms wide. “I’m cooking—let me cook. I’m like, Chef Gojōyardee, just le—“

“Hey guys!”

You calm your glare and redirect your attention to the person standing at the head of the table, a familiarly cropped jacket, and—oh, it’s Yū, and he looks the exact same.

“I needed extra hands,” Suguru defends, like he dredged up an old memory in the form of a human being on accident. He slides everyone’s respective orders across the table, before taking his rightful place on Satoru’s left.

Utahime is the first to react.

“Yū? Oh my God!” She moves to stand, but her thighs ram into the soft edges of the table, and with a hiss, she sits right back down. “I’m sorta trapped—in the middle, here—but, ugh, I wanna give you a hug! You look good!”

There’s a stranger standing—mm, looming—behind Yū, but you don’t recognize him. Though, you gotta admit—the cyan and tan color combo is kinda killer…and, yeah, just the color combo. Not the body wearing it, or whatever.

“Oh, it’s okay!” Yū waves a hand with an equal amount of energy that Satoru has. Cocaine…it poisons the youth… “We can do hugs later. I just wanted to say hi, and—“

“Here, wait—have a seat,” you gesture across from you, because there’s more than enough room for him, Satoru’s just manspreading to the point where he might as well do a split. You force him into civility by kicking his foot. “C’mon, we need all the deets. What’ve you been up to?”

Satoru shifts, Suguru shifts, and Yū assumes the newly formed space with pride. The stranger steps forward, replacing Yū’s after-image with less enthusiasm. He seems awkward and unsure of himself, and raps a knuckle against the wooden table. Satoru turns to Yū once he sits down, holding a delightful smile that is absolutely terrifying. “Hello, Yū.”

“Hi!”

“And,” he swings his head to the stranger at the head of the table, the one that bites the inside of his cheek. “Hello, Nanamin.”

Um.

No. No. That statement is false. That statement is—

Not-Kentō lets out a long suffering sigh, rolling a shoulder—a very nice, big, muscled shoulder, what the fuck—

“All this time, and you still refuse to say my name correctly.”

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, it is Kentō, he sounds the fucking same.

“Holy shit,” Shōko says with a squint, and you’re just happy it wasn’t you. “Nanami?”

“Hello,” he waves from the hip, with your favorite curt smile from high school. Your brain tries to super-impose the image of his younger self over his current one, but it hurts your head, so you have to stop.

“And, you remember Y/N, right?” Satoru gestures at you with an open palm and a shit eating grin. You give him the most scathing glare you can muster, because the majority of your brain cells run in circles with red blaring alarms, screaming holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—

When did Kentō Nanami get hot?

IT ALL STARTED AT THE DANCE. BARBIE, THE FAMOUS TEENAGE FASHION MODEL DOLL BY MATTEL, FELT THAT THIS WAS TO BE A SPECIAL NIGHT. AND THEN, IT HAPPENED—SHE MET KEN.

“Keeeeeeeeen!”

The full weight of your body slams into the boy in front of you, and he stumbles into the locker in front of him. Luckily, he was still twisting his combination into the lock, and steadies himself easy. Kentō scowls at you under a blond fringe.

“Get off of me.”

“Aren’t you so excited,” you wrap both arms around his neck, perfectly manicured nails curling under his nape, and Kentō doesn’t get it—at all. Doesn’t get you.

Why the fuck are you talking to him?

He manages to find the inner strength to shove you off, and redo his locker combination. You let him, leaning against the locker next to his. “We’re gonna blow Satoru and Suguru’s project out the fucking water.”

Kentō’s locker clicks open, and he sighs. “Something tells me I’ll be doing the majority of this project.”

“Hey!” You half-heartedly pout—half-hearted, because you’re also double-checking your makeup in the mirror that you put in his locker. Apparently, ‘everything of yours is so boring, Kentō, you gotta liven up the place!’ “I always do my part on group projects, thank you.”

And—Kentō doesn’t really know whether you will or not, so he supposes it’s on him for assuming, but refuses to give you the satisfaction of knowing that thought. No, instead he grabs his AP Calculus textbook with a grunt, and eyes the flaccid state of your backpack.

“How do you even have time to follow me in-between classes? Don’t you use your locker?”

“Nope!” You beam with an absolute and unadulterated joy that he thinks he’ll forever find a little off-putting. Reaching around awkwardly to pat the Jansport, you say, “I got everything I need right here.”

Kentō is almost positive there isn’t much but a laptop.

“I—” he starts to argue, before realizing there isn’t much point, you’ve attached yourself to his shadow regardless, and it’s annoying. It’s annoying, and he’s sure you have better things to do—more popular people to socialize with—but no, for some reason you’re here, in makeup a little too mature for your age and wide eyes that betray it all, and Kentō wants to ram his head into the brick wall. He doesn’t get it.

You’re not even in any of his classes except French, and yet, you pick him up and drop him off at each one with a ‘hi, Kentō!’ ‘bye, Kentō!’ And, this aforementioned Kentō feels like he’s going to implode every. Single. Time.

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the bit.

“Never mind,” he exhales, closing his locker with a heavy hand. You stand up straighter to follow him down the hall, and he lets you.

AND SOMEHOW, SHE KNEW THAT SHE AND KEN WOULD BE GOING TOGETHER.

“And, you remember Y/N, right?”

“I do,” and Kentō gives you a tight lipped smile, one that you can’t fully read. God, does he, like, hate you now? You knew your memory was false. You knew you totally annoyed him in high school. You knew—

“Sit, sit!”

But, Satoru’s gesturing to the space next you—not like there is any, so Satoru quits his manspreading properly. Utahime shifts as close to him as she can tolerate, and Shōko scoots next to her, and now, you have to scoot, because if not, you look like an asshole who doesn’t want him here.

The question is: do your legs work.

You manage. You also almost drop the open purse in your lap in the process, forgetting about it in the chaos—and that would’ve been really embarrassing, if you had to duck under the table to grab the portable razor you insist on bringing everywhere. A woman’s purse is not for prying eyes.

Kentō sits next to you, all…however many pounds of him, and he smells…God. He smells. That’s all you can say—he smells, and you want to bottle that smell, and spray it on your pillows every night and maybe a sweatshirt or two. You knew this was a mistake—you knew Satoru was up to no good—and now, you want to leave, but you’re decisively stuck between Shōko and…and…

“How have you been?”

It’s the familiar voice coming out of such an unfamiliar body that sends you for a loop. When the loops done, you’re a little dizzy, but also, kind of want to go again. And then, you realize Kentō’s looking at you—asking you—and you can’t go again, because you have to lock in and function like a normal adult. Right. Right.

“Ah, good! How about you, what’ve you been up to?”

“Not much,” he admits with a shrug, resting his forearms on the table. “Basic accounting—desk job, good benefits.”

You snort. Rigid as always.

“Mm…sounds boring,” you hum, fighting that feeling when he lets a snort and a smile slip.

“It’s work,” he shrugs again, and respectfully, you couldn’t give a shit about work right now. Accounting is boring and you want to know how much he can bench press—

“You?”

Right. Conversation. Conversation.

“U-Uh,” you snap your jaw shut before he can see, but you notice Satoru cheesing in your peripheral, earning him a heel to the toes again. “I work—I mean, I write, uh, like, nonfiction, and stuff, um—how much do you bench press?”

Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck.

Champagne in the limo did not do you well.

Kentō lifts an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Um—! That’s not, I didn’t—”

“I don’t think that’s a question you should go around and ask people,” he says, but the corners of his lips twitch, which means you haven’t fucked up too bad, right?

“I—well, it’s for science,” you splutter, but honestly, nice fucking save. “For uh, a thing, I’m writing.”

Kentō eyes you over his shoulder, and they’re hazel—have they always been hazel? “You need to know my workout routine…for ‘a thing you’re writing.’”

You nod.

“Correct.“

“350.”

Good Lord.

SO NOW, MATTEL BRINGS YOU KEN, BARBIE’S BOYFRIEND—

“Are you guys dating?”

Kentō wants to crawl in a hole and die.

“No,” he grunts, trying to contain his irritation. This is Yū, and Yū doesn’t mean anything by it.

Lunch is Kentō’s least favorite time of the day. Which is ironic, because he loves the culinary arts—but the cafeteria is far too much of a war zone for him to enjoy anything properly. So, peanut butter and jelly sandwich it is. The war zone doesn’t prevent him from finding you in the crowd, however, sitting on a table with swinging legs. You talk with animation and wildly gesticulating hands. Suguru leans on your knees to listen, and Satoru plays with the ends of your hair until you slap him away.

“Definitely not,” Kentō mutters, picking at a corner of his sandwich. You catch his eye from across the cafeteria, through the shifting seas full of students and overbearing teachers. You pull Suguru’s hand off your lap, and start to sashay in Kentō‘s direction with a brand new smile and a pep in your step. He doesn’t get it.

Yū doesn’t hear his grumbling—definitely doesn’t hear his internal train of thought—and returns your wave right before you get caught between cheermates. You answer their questions, giggling politely, but your eyes keep drifting to Kentō’s with an impatience. He’s convinced this has be some overly elaborate prank, or some Machiavellian attempt to get him to do your homework for the rest of time.

(And, the worst part is—he would.)

Once it’s clear that you’ll be stuck for a while, Yū turns back to him. “Really? She follows you everywhere.”

“We’re doing a group project.”

It sounds like bullshit when he says it aloud. (Because, it is bullshit.)

But, either Yū is too gullible or doesn’t like to get invested in other people’s lives, because he asks no further questions. This is why they’re acquaintances. (Friends.)

“Keeeeeeen!”

Kentō jumps, because he got distracted, and didn’t have enough time to prepare, and you’re blinding. That, and you’re right there, there is absolutely no reason to yell.

“What,” he groans. A dull throb begins to form behind his eyebrows the moment you make him scoot with a shove of your hips. You drape the side of your body against his shoulder, like you do every time. And, like he does every time, “Get off of me.”

“Be my prom date.”

Kentō stiffens.

That’s when he realizes that this is a prank—that this is like those movies Yū makes him watch sometimes, where the protagonist is given a dare to win some loser. Except, this isn’t Hallmark, or Netflix, this is real life, and she does not fall for the loser because said loser is a loser. It’s a honeytrap so sweet he can taste it—and it rots his teeth and tears at the lining of his cheeks.

Nanami Kentō may be a loser, but he is not that loser.

“No.”

You plow forward, unfazed, twisting your body until the back of your head digs into his shoulder. “Awh, c’mon, why not?”

It’s too easy.

“I don’t do prom.”

—WITH A COMPLETE WARDROBE OF URGENTLY TAILORED CLOTHES OF UNMATCHED QUALITY!

“350.”

“Ooh. Nice, nice,” you nod. So cool, very cool, because you are just that—cool. Small talk sucks, and honestly, you just want to throw yourself into his side and just pick up where you two left off, but you can’t anymore, not with your newfound self-awareness. Not with those shoulders. “Um…I like your outfit.”

Kentō looks down at himself, then at your outfit, probably to compliment you the same with a frustrating politeness, but his eyes get…stuck. Either, they get stuck, or you’re just stupid now—both of which are equally valid prospects, and both of which are probably equally correct. Then, you blink, and his eyes have returned to yours like they never left.

“You look good, too.”

Which—not what you said, but you’ll take it. Take it and run, actually. Fucking sprint.

“Thank you,” you try to keep your smile curt, and ignore the way the simple compliment ignites your whole being. Kentō looks like he’s debating on saying something, massaging his lips while he watches you, and your body is wholly unsure on whether it wants to shrink or soar.

“Remember when you spilled coffee on my shirt?”

“I—” you bluster, because you aren’t exactly sure what you thought he was going to say, but definitely not that. You find yourself laughing at the memory all the same, though, “Okay, you bumped into me—”

Kentō sucks his lips in protest. “I did not, I believe my eyes were in front of me, nor was I walking—”

“That shirt was ugly, anyway,” you defend with all the petulance of a child. Kentō rolls his eyes, but smiles soft, and shifts to face you better.

“That was my favorite shirt.”

You burst into a series of giggles. He’s not far behind, with a chuckle hidden behind an arm as he places a hand to his forehead.

“Ugh, guys, I’m bored!”

Satoru’s shrill voice cuts through your laughter, through your jubilation, and you remember that you’re in a room with other people—not an empty and endless void with nothing but Nanami Kentō. How disappointing.

“Ooh! Let’s go to the arcade, I heard it’s still open?”

The arcade has your interest piqued, though. Looking at the man beside you again, you nudge him in the shoulder. (Yes, the very nice, very muscled shoulder, and wow, the feel—) “Still hate video games?”

Kentō shrugs.

“I can make exceptions.”

NOW, KEN AND BARBIE MEET FOR LUNCH AT SCHOOL, GO TO FRATERNITY PARTIES, AND JUST RELAX TOGETHER!

“Ken.“

“No.”

“Ken.”

“No.”

“Ke—“

“I’m not going to prom with you. Stop asking.”

You…You are insatiable.

Kentō was just trying to read. Kentō was just trying to read, and soak up some sun, and relax outside for once, but no, of course you fucking find him and flounce over in that stupid skirt he hates in an effort to make his life infinitely harder. He doesn’t get it.

He says no, but you keep asking. So, he keeps saying no, and you keep asking. Is there money on the line, or something?

You just whine, and take a seat in the grass beside him. It’s hot today, but with enough of a breeze that the sun is refreshing, and the majority of the students took to the Quad after class to socialize. Kentō, who didn’t want to socialize, went out of his way to find an empty field with a tree (because, Jujutsu High has a lot of those—fields and trees) and planted himself. For some reason, though, you’re sweating. And panting.

He shouldn’t ask.

“Are you…okay.”

He has to force himself to commit halfway, and it sounds more of resignation than interrogation, but you either don’t hear it, or don’t care.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” you heave, lifting a hand from your hips to fan at your face, while the other stays braced. You swallow, and it looks painful. “I was just—y’know—running—”

You can’t get much out between pants, and eventually, you give up and double over. With a sigh, Kentō fishes in his bag to grab an unopened disposable water bottle, and shoves it in your field of vision.

You take it without question, like you’re friends or something—which, he cannot emphasize the fact that you are not—and rip the cap open, slightly jamming the seal. You take gulp after gulp, exhaling and grunting like a toddler and crushing plastic beneath your fingertips. It should be weird. It should be disgusting.

And, yet.

Kentō watches as water escapes from the haphazardly placed bottle between your lips, watches it slide to your chin and roll beneath your jawline, and he wants to lick it off. He wants…he wants—

“Thanks,” you grunt, still a little out of breath from chugging, and wipe at the bottom of your face with the back of your hand. You hold the destroyed water bottle out for him. Kentō wants to put his head in the dirt.

“…Keep it.”

THINK OF THE FUN YOU’LL HAVE TAKING BARBIE AND KEN ON DATES! DRESSING EACH ONE JUST RIGHT.

“Fuck yeah!”

The puck hits the back of the goal with a metallic clank, and the air hockey field quiets its whirr. Game over. Kentō sighs and drops his head, upper body outstretched in the position that he failed to block your absolutely amazing ricochet in.

“No more games,” he decides with a sigh, and brushes back the stray hairs that escaped his perfectly gelled part. You snort, crossing your arms and jutting out a hip of success.

“Why? Tired of losing?”

It’s a joke, but the look he gives implies his response is not.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” you let him live, and decide not to pick another game. That is—until your eye catches a claw machine, but that doesn’t even count as a game, right? Grabbing him by the forearm, you tug him left. “Ooh! Lemme win you something!”

Kentō snorts, but again, this is not a game, definitely not one he has to play. So, he indulges, and follows the finger you have pressed against the glass.

“Whad’ya want?”

He lifts an eyebrow, studying your confidence. “We should see if you can get one, first.”

You choke on his audacity, placing a hand over your heart in faux offense. With a huff and a free hand, you put a few coins into the machine. It lights up with a bubblegum pop theme song. “Fine, then—never mind. You don’t deserve it.”

He chuckles, leaning an arm against the machine. “Get me a Teddy Bear, then.”

“Which one?” You groan once you realize the absolute quantity of Teddy Bears in the thing—ugly and cute ones, pink and blue ones, ones that look less like bears and more like vaguely human shaped radishes. The majority of the prize options are Teddy Bears. There’s the option to grab a phone, but it’s somewhere in the mess of multi-colored fluff, and the picture looks to be an iPhone 13.

“I’m not picky,” he shrugs, and you bristle, but the machine is about to start, and you don’t know if there’s a timer. You let out a focused exhale and begin rattling the joystick against its frame. And, you get close—really close.

But, the tan bear’s limbs are weak and boneless and flimsy, and the second the claw hits the ceiling of the machine, the bears paw slips through the useless thing and lands in a pile. The claw resets.

You groan, and put in two more coins.

ATTEMPT #1 (#2?) — You grab a blue bastard by its neck, but its head is too heavy. It rolls right out of the claw.

ATTEMPT #2 (#3?) — You grab a pink one by its waist, but the claw is slightly off, and doesn’t make it far.

ATTEMPT #3 (#4?) — So close. So close, and then the claw does something weird, you don’t know—all you know is that it wasn’t your fault. You had that one, dammit.

“It’s fucking rigged,” is the only conclusion you can come to. Even if you haven’t touched a claw machine since early high school. You swore it was easier than this.

“No, you’re just getting impatient,” Kentō schools, and you stick your tongue out. But then, he’s moving behind you, hand encompassing yours over the joystick, and, do guys still grow after high school? You swear he wasn’t this tall at graduation.

“Put in another coin.”

Right.

You dig into your pockets with a free hand and shakily feed them into the machine. Be cool, be fine, be chill—

“Okay,” he says as the machine sings again, a song you’re officially sick of hearing, and you feel his chest rumble against your back. “The trick is to be gentle—just because you move the joystick all aggressive doesn’t mean the claw is going to move any faster.”

You’re trying to focus, really, but all you can really feel is his breath against your neck and the heat of his hand. You probably look a little silly, a little dazed and confused, but thank your lucky stars that the glass of the machine isn’t too reflective.

As the claw lowers, you prepare to press the red button in time. But then, his other hand snakes across yours, and you’re stuck. He presses it for you, and out comes a Teddy Bear in your favorite color. It drops into the dispensary bin with ease.

“That’s not fair,” you at least have the wherewithal to say something, instead of just breathing heavy with glassy eyes. Lock in, lock in. Kentō just chuckles, pulls the bear out by its waist and hands it to you. “I—Hey, this is supposed to be yours!”

“You were also supposed to win me a prize,” he reminds with a lift of his eyebrow, and the joints in your knees melt.

Not fair.

YOU’LL FIND KEN WHEREVER TOYS ARE SOLD. LOOK FOR THE SPECIAL TAG THAT TELLS YOU HE’S A GENUINE KEN!

“Hey.”

You don’t really want to talk to anyone right now, but you manage a people pleasing smile.

“Hi.”

Kentō sits next to you with his overstuffed bag, always over prepared, over packed, with spares in his locker. You usually run into situations head first, and figure it out from there. Maybe, that’s your problem. Maybe, that can be your new excuse.

“I haven’t seen you all day.”

That comment makes you laugh. It’s wet, and a little bitter, but a laugh nonetheless. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only one who thinks so.

Kentō looks weird at night. Jujutsu High is far away enough from civilization that you can see more stars than you can back home, but not all of them. That’s kind of what Kentō feels like, a little bit—distant and flickering. Fake. Like a doll.

What the fuck are you saying? You need to go to bed.

You’re not sure where the crush started. The group project, maybe? Does it matter?

“I’m serious.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, hoping it’s too dark to see dried tear tracks. “Why do you always have a backpack?”

“That has no bearing on what I just said.”

You laugh again, running a down your face. The roof’s kawara tiles hurt your back like a bitch, but it was a pain in the ass to get up here. Probably going to be a pain in the ass to get down, too.

“I think it’s a valid question,” you shrug the best you can from your lying position. Kentō reclines to meet you, hands resting by his navel.

For a moment, you two sit in silence and study the stars. You watch one blink, can’t tell if it’s moving or not, whether it’s a plane or a star. You find the Little Dipper for the twelfth time tonight, tracing Kochab to Polaris and back again. Kentō sighs, shifts. Tries to get comfortable in all the ways that you have failed, and with a huff, starts digging into his bag. It’s not until he pulls out a textbook that you realize what he’s doing.

“Ooh, smart,” you say, and start making grabby hands in his direction, because you know he has another. “Gimme.”

With a roll of his eyes, he passes you the textbook he already held, while he grabs another to make for vague pillows. You tuck it under your head, and though it’s not super comfortable, it alleviates some of the pressure from your back.

“Nice,” you give a firm nod of approval. He snorts, fights a small smile, and fails.

“That’s why I always have a backpack.”

You giggle, and watch him watch the stars.

“You’re a dork.”

“Yeah, well,” Kentō turns his head, and the small smile breaks into a grin—a little shy, but wide and unadulterated and just for you. “I’m starting to think you’re not much better.”

GET BOTH BARBIE AND KEN—

“—and then,” you take a second to bite, chew, and swallow half of your own french fry before continuing. “Yaga made us run a mile, all because Shōko couldn’t stop snickering at his botched hair cut, it was so fucked up.”

Kentō nods—although he wasn’t in your year, P.E. was the only class he failed (twice—no, he will not talk about it), and Yaga was a definitive pain. But, he finds that he couldn’t care less about Yaga, or Physical Education, or the fact that he failed twice, because his mind starts to wander. Wandering into wondering if there’s a way to put you in a glass box and watch you talk for hours, before realizing that’s probably awfully misogynistic, somehow, and definitely not a thought a normally functioning adult should have. All these years later, and he’s still severely wrapped around your finger. All these years later, and he still doesn’t get it.

You’re beautiful.

You’re beautiful, and now, you’re checking your phone for the time. Kentō checks his watch too, and—

“Ah shit,” you sigh, deflating a little. “It’s late. I got work in the morning.”

He does too, and probably shouldn’t ruin his sleep schedule more than he already has just to talk for a few more minutes. You perk up, looking around and frowning when you can’t find any familiar faces.

“…Where did everyone go?”

“Oh, they’re in there,” Kentō says with confidence, also scanning…scanning…until he remembers that Satoru is a conniving motherfucker. He severely hopes his acquaintance wouldn’t stoop that low. “Somewhere, I’m sure.”

You sigh, stretching arms above your head. Kentō watches your stomach stretch, and quickly stamps out the fire in his belly. “Ugh. Time to go people diving—we all came together.”

His mouth starts moving, against his better judgement, before he has time to evaluate. To assess.

“I could take you home.”

Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck.

“I mean,” he coughs into a fist, but no amount of damage control will undo what he just said, ”If you can’t find Shōko. I—I drove, so.”

You hum for a moment, swaying, before, “Nah, fuck ‘em. Lets Irish Goodbye those bastards!”

“…That seems like a recipe for disaster.”

“I’ll text them,” you amend with a wave over your shoulder, and quickly scoot out the booth. Kentō follows suit, but he doesn’t move fast enough, and you start grabbing at his wrists. “C’moooon!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

AND SEE WHERE THE ROMANCE WILL LEAD.

“Fine.”

“W-Wait, really?”

Kentō glares. Honestly, he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to laugh in his face, for you to say you got him so good and are about to get so much money, but you don’t. Isn’t this where he’s supposed to find out, in the movie? At the prom, maybe. Or, whispers from behind his back.

He doesn’t know. He just knows you make him do questionable things.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You look really pretty on prom night.

Kentō has been, admittedly, very nervous, and is even more so at the bottom of the stairs. He watches you walk down, and tries his hardest to avoid fiddling with the corsage. Don’t look nervous. Don’t look nervous, don’t look nervous, don’t look—

“You nervous?” You’re smiling at him, bending over to interrupt his staring contest with the floor, and Kentō catches your eyes with a bristle.

“No,” but his voice cracks, and there’s a flush raising from his neck that says otherwise. He knows there’s a flush, because he feels fucking faint, holy shit—

“You look, um,” Kentō swallows, tries again. “You look very pretty.”

“Thank you,” you beam, standing up straight before brushing off his shoulder. “You look cute, too.”

Which—not what he said, but he’ll take it. Take it and run, actually. Fucking sprint.

“Awh, look at my daughter and her date! Say cheese!”

Prom isn’t as bad as Kentō thought it’d be.

It was a little stuffy, but that was to be expected. The adults watch the dance floor like a hawk, snapping whenever kids of opposing genders get too close, and Satoru sneaks alcohol into the venue. Your parents are strict enough, so an after party is off the menu (thank God), leaving the two of you to watch Pirates of the Caribbean in the living room until someone deems it time for him to go home. You stuff microwave popcorn into your mouth with a fist, and get kernels all over your oversized shirt. Kentō snorts.

But, again, there’s the question that’s been hanging over his head for the past few months, one that he can’t figure out the answer to, no matter how many context clues he finds. He’s confused. He doesn’t get it.

“Hey, um,” his eyebrows bend, because how does he ask this without sounding like an absolute loser. “Was this…um…tonight…?”

“Mm, yes Kentō, speak to me with eloquence,” you giggle, building a frame around his face made of index fingers and thumbs, and he swats at it.

“I’m serious.”

You brush a few kernels off and nod, giving him time to work out his thoughts. Honestly, Kentō wishes he didn’t have time—because he knows what he wants to say, but saying it is absolutely pathetic.

He bites the bullet, regardless.

“Was this a dare?”

You snort, sitting up with a tilt to your head. “Was what a dare?”

“Like,” Kentō sighs, gesturing between the two of you, “this, prom, was it a dare.”

You squint your eyes. Not glaring, just…examining. “Wow, you think that low of me, huh.”

“That has nothing to do with that, although, yes,” he covers, and it earns him a well meaning shove to the shoulder. “But um, no. I was just wondering.”

Kentō’s not sure if the pressure in his chest has lifted or sunk. He’s not sure whether he believes you.

But, the conversation ends there. Your mom pokes a head in and says it’s time for him to go home, so he does. You graduate a few months later, and leave for college a few months after that. He never sees you again.

IT COULD LEAD TO THIS!

Is Kentō supposed to let you go, again? Is that how this night is supposed to end?

“Thanks for the ride,” you smile, and Kentō hates that he’s going to miss the image of you in his passenger seat, especially when you’ve only been in it for about fifteen minutes. Pathetic. “Tonight was fun! We should, um, hang out soon, or something.”

Kentō nods. You don’t make any movements to leave. He doesn’t make you.

Does he listen to his heart, for once, instead of his head?

“We should,” he says, and hopes that it’ll come to fruition. He has to remind himself that ’we should hang out soon’ is a formality, never a promise, rarely a want. He tries anyway, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. “Drinks, or something.”

“Yeah,” you nod, massaging lips together in a way that betrays your nerves. And Kentō, perpetually afraid of reading you wrong, feels eighteen again, and in all the worst ways.

Is he supposed to let you go—

“So, um—”

“Actually, I—”

—again?

You laugh as your words stumble over his, eyes crinkling. His chest fills with a warm feeling he didn’t realize was gone. He smiles, resting is head against the leather seat.

“What were you going to say?”

“Oh no,” you laugh it off with a wave, adjusting to get a better look at him. “It’s—it was really stupid, actually, so like—”

“Well. You’ve peaked my interest, now,” Kentō looks at you in the eyes, and your smile turns bashful.

“Uhm—no, it’s not even—it’s such a small thing, y’know—”

Greed gets the better of him, and Kentō pokes you in the side, snorting when you squeal. “Tell me.”

You groan, slamming the side of your body into the car seat, and pout. All in that order. Very dramatic.

“No, I was just,” your fingers start fiddling with the seatbelt, eyes looking anywhere but his, “I was just gonna say, like, um, I liked you a lot, in high school, y’know? I mean—you probably do know, I wasn’t subtle, especially the whole prom thing, but like, I wanted to, um—sorry, for all that? Like—“

Kentō frowns. You’re apologizing?

“You’re apologizing.”

“Uh, yeah,” you breathe laugh, and it’s shaky. “‘Cause, like—”

“Why are you apologizing.”

“Let me speak, Idiot,” you grunt, the unsteady smile melting into a solid frown. He concedes, you swallow. “I guess…I was a lot, back then. Still am, if I’m being honest, but now I have, like, a semblance of social cues to realize I was disturbing your peace. And, for that, I apologize.”

You finish the sentence with a degree of finality, like everything you stated is fact and can be found in an encyclopedia. Kentō’s internal council are losing their minds, each member for different reasons—all wholly unhelpful.

‘She liked us!’

‘Tell her!’

‘Yes, but could she still like us?’

‘We’ll make her l—‘

‘Back in the box—back in the box!’

Kentō exhales out of his nose, sharp and heavier than intended—also, with a degree of finality. Acceptance.

“I liked you, too.”

That gets you to look at him, head whipping so quick it makes your earrings quiver. Kentō remembers this part from Yū’s movies too, but a different one—where the characters either act on it now, or leave their words to rot for five more years of unnecessary longing. Maybe a lifetime. His chest shudders with another breath. He doesn’t want to let you go again.

Spit it out, Kentō.

He needs to stop picking at the gearshift.

“And, I don’t know…if those feelings have fully left, necessarily.”

Something in your eye glistens, and you clear your throat. Kentō thinks it’s a good sign—he also lacked a proper understanding of social cues in high school, and feels himself lagging in that department to this day. But, he thinks—

“Yeah, same,” you say, a little breathless, and Kentō’s pulse is confused on what to do—calm down or sky-rocket—and he feels the sudden urge to pass out. How many people did he save in his past life to get here?

Luckily, you ask for him—he doesn’t know how he would’ve managed, to be honest.

“Can I kiss you?”

He’s nodding, and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt. Then, your lips are on his, just like that. Easy.

The angle is awkward, but neither of you care. The tight coil of butterflies in his stomach bursts into something beautiful, into something uncontainable, as his hand finds your waist to confirm that, yes, you are real, and yes, this is happening. Your hands grab his cheeks and tug him closer, but you pull too quick, and his seatbelt locks.

“Fucking—stupid ass seatbelt.“ You pull away to unbuckle it for him, but it gets caught under his left arm in attempt to recoil, buckle slamming into his shoulder.

“Ow,” he groans, and threads his arm through, before leaning over the center console. You pop your neck.

“Should’ve taken it off yourself, then.”

“You didn’t let me,” he chuckles the fact, full of all the things he never lets himself feel. You smile, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Your forehead knocks into his, and Kentō has never cared less about wasting gas in his life.

“You move slow,” you say, but it’s lacking fire and it’s quiet, like it’s just for him. Then, Kentō realizes it is just for him, and the beast in his chest rattles its cage a little harder.

With a snort, he presses his lips to yours again. You hum into the kiss and he lets the vibrations wash over him, roll into the sea, letting the wave drown him just because it can. The windows start to fog, teeth start to clash, and hands get desperate—when Kentō pulls away, you whine.

“That’s it,” he says, more to himself, more of a down boy, “I can’t—I want to take you on a date, first.”

He feels just as breathless as you look, chest heaving with kiss swollen lips. And Kentō, a man of principles, wants to break them for the first time. Wants to watch them shatter, and dance across the shards.

Especially when you mewl, and the hands in his hair drop to his chest to grab his shirt and tug.

“C’mon,” you whine, pouting and batting your lashes in a way that would’ve gotten him to do your homework, once. “That’s not fair—kissing me stupid just to leave me high and dry is not how this works.”

Kentō shudders an exhale, and the hands on your waist tighten.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers, and questions who kissed who stupid. ”Six. I’ll pick you up.”

You huff when you understand you won’t get your way. Thank God, because if you didn’t—

“Fine,” the sigh is wistful, but agreeing. “What should I wear?”

Kentō shrugs. “You look beautiful in everything.”

You gawk, and give him good natured slap to the shoulder.

“Ken! Take me on a date first—my goodness.”

AND REMEMBER: YOU CAN TELL IT‘S MATTEL—IT’S WELL!

[EXTRA]

“She’s what?”

For once, Kentō lets his frustrations at Yū slip. For once.

“I didn’t know!” The brunette defends himself over the phone, poorly, if Kentō may add. He nearly trips into a coat rack from tugging on a pair of loafers, all while cradling the phone to his ear with a shoulder. This night has just gone from bad, to horrible, to worse, and he’s still reeling from the whiplash. “‘Toru literally just texted and said ‘oh, let Ken know Y/N’s gonna be here tonight, FYI,’ literally five seconds ago! Hence my SOS!”

Fuck your SOS, Kentō wants to say, but he keeps it together. Barely.

He’s going to strangle Satoru Gojō and then himself. And make Yū watch.

He and Satoru never spoke in high school—at all, actually. But, they attended the same college, and once Satoru realized that he knew a ‘baby freshman’ on campus, he insisted on taking Kentō under his wing. (Read: harassment.) They, unfortunately, had enough time to get to know each other. Enough time for Kentō to drunkenly spill his guts (a lapse in judgement—a severe lapse in judgment, Kentō cannot begin to elaborate how severe) about a particular head cheerleader from their high school. Once Satoru gave him that fucking smile and said ‘oh,’ Kentō knew he was fucked.

He just thought Satoru forgot, or assumed Kentō moved on like a healthy adult—which, he did, he has, he just…misses you, sometimes, and hasn’t been with anybody in any regard—because, five years later? That’s too much.

Kentō ends up knocking over the coat rack anyway, trying to find a second shoe.

Fuck. He’s fucked. He’s still wearing his suit from work, too tired and lacking proper time to change—he’s leaving now, why did Yū call him now?—and probably looks like shit after a full work week. Kentō wasn’t even supposed to attend this stupid reunion, but Yū begged, and one does not simply say no to Yū Haibara without feeling like the worst person on the planet.

He fails to weasel his foot in the second loafer, so he just stomps it on, with no integrity for the shoe, because fuck it at this point. Yū seems to be able to hear it from the other side of the line.

“Okay, Kentō, let's take a deep breath—"

Do not tell him to take a deep breath.

But, because Kentō is a good acquaintance (friend), he listens, and takes a deep breath, and corrects the coat rack to grab the suit jacket that fell, along with every other coat he owns.

“Whatever. I’m on my way.”

He slings the jacket over his shoulder and shoves the front door open, walking into the cool night air. Yū chirps from the phone.

“Okay! I’ll let you know when I’m there!”

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

taglist; @kamislop, @tokkushin...

[kamislop]

tina tina tina i have a little request for ochako if you're cool with that 👉👈 maybe a cute hot blurb of ochako not realizing that reader is flirting SHAMELESSLY with her and one night reader just gets tired of it and confess her feelings towards her. and they scissor or smh that's up to you

flirty! - ochako uraraka 18+ MDNI!!! [wc. 1.4k]

"that top is so pretty, ochako!"

"wow you bench that much? what's next, you're gonna bench me?"

"would you like to take the train home with me? we live close anyway!"

these sentences, and many other alike, were just evidence of your - astronomically failed - attempts to flirt with ochako uraraka. you knew you had some kind of feelings for ochako since highschool, but never acted on it until after graduation, when you learned she liked girls after a very drunk yaomomo called her out on it and she didn’t deny.

it helped that the two of you worked in neighboring agencies now, and from time to time you would help her out with her quirk counseling program. still, no matter how hard you tried to get the message across, the answer was always the same.

”awww stop, you’re just saying that!”

even if it was followed by the sweetest grin and the prettiest flush blooming on her cheeks, it never looked like she was taking you seriously. you should’ve given up a long time ago, and you would’ve if it wasn’t for the mixed signals she would give back.

chat, is it gay if a girl gropes your butt to compliment on your muscle gains?

so really, who could blame you? you just needed to do a better job at taking the matter into your own hands, and not just metaphorically.

you were never a fan of big events. all those people, the cameras, the feeling of your ribcage being crushed inside whatever gown made by a designer who was sponsoring you. the only good thing that came from it was the opportunity to chat with old acquaintances— and the alcohol.

tonight, alcohol was just what you needed to finally work up enough courage. no more half-assed attempts, no more compliments that would come off as simple flattery.

“hey, y/n— are you okay?” ochako was talking to katsuki, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but here, when you sauntered over. you barely registered the blond, though, blinded by how stunning she was in that red dress that hugged her figure so flawlessly. have some decorum…for now, you mentally chided yourself.

“i’m doing great! i hope i wasn’t interrupting or anything?” you look over to katsuki, who simply waves his hand. “nah, cheeks was just torturing me to death. can’t even enjoy being outside without bringing up work,” he scoffs, but his words lack any actual malice.

“actually, i was updating katsuki on the progress we’ve been making with the program. and by the way, you asked me,” she flicked his arm, and the blond clutched it dramatically, making both of you giggle. “yeah, and you still managed to make it sound boring, i’m leaving her with you,” is all he says before he’s walking over to eijirou a couple tables over.

ochako fidgets with her champagne flute, caramel eyes meeting yours. “i’m not boring, am i?”

“absolutely not! are you seriously taking bakugou’s words as a reliable source? puh-lease,” you roll your eyes. she chuckles. “you’re right, you’re right. can’t believe he’s still as tactless as ever,” she adds. you can definitely agree with that.

as ochako takes a sip, you can’t help but let your gaze drag over every inch of her beautiful body— her hair, her face, her bare and toned shoulders. you swallow when you feel your mouth literally water. “y-you look amazing, by the way,” you blurt out. “i don’t think i’ve had the chance to tell you yet.”

she lights up, full cheeks growing a nice shade of dark pink. “than you, you’re too kind! you look very gorgeous yourself,” she takes a step back to fully look at you, and you don’t miss the way she seems to focus on your cleavage area a little longer than necessary.

“yeah?” you purr, tilting your head to the side. “because i mean it, you look ravishing.”

her eyes widen a little, lips parting in the cutest ‘o’ shape. “aww y/n, you’re just saying that!” she giggles, shaking her head. “and you’re drunk.”

“i’m sober enough to appreciate you just fine, thank you,” you clarify. “and i fully mean every word that i’m saying. i’ve meant every word that i’ve said to you for years. tonight i just needed a little push for it,” you wave your own flute up".

the gears in her mind seem to work overtime for a beat too long, enough for you to start wondering if you had to brace for the most humiliating rejection in history. ochako bites down on her bottom lip, voice growing quiet. “you…you do?”

you nod firmly. “positive.”

she smiles, putting down her glass before reaching for your hand. “wanna get out of here?”

••●••

“fuck, you taste so good.”

ochako really did use every inch of willpower in her body to not pounce on you in the hallway, or in the taxi you took to her place. but she barely waited for the front door to close before pinning you to it, her lips on yours. being manhandled by her like this was like a dream come true.

“o-oh god, ochako—” she swallows your loud moan greedily. her fingers had already found the slit in your gown, and the pathetic mess between your thighs. “you really are needy, hm?” she teases, smiling into the kiss. “is it because of me or the alcohol?”

the way her fingertips circle your clit through the disgustingly damp fabric of your panties has you dizzy. “y-you…it’s you ‘chako…fuck!” you gasp, head lolling back and hitting wood. with your eyes squeezed shut in pure bliss, you can’t see the way ochako’s gleam with fascination and lust. you just look so pretty like this, dumb on her fingers when she’s barely touched you properly.

your hips gyrate subconsciously, chasing the friction. “i’m…’m close, chako, please!” you beg breathlessly, a hand coming up to tangle into her auburn hair, tugging her close for a bruising kiss you both immediately melt into. you come undone with a sob, ochako’s free hand holding you up by the waist with a strong grip, working you through every crest until your body is sizzling with weak aftershocks.

“you did well…so well for me,” ochako praises softly, peppering the side of your jaw and neck with kisses. “can i return the favor now?” you manage to ask when the daze dissipates.

and the next thing you know you’re lying on your stomach on her bed, strong thighs bracketing your head and squeezing whenever your tongue flicks over her weeping cunt just right. her moans come in muffled, but you don’t care as long as you can feast, drinking every drop of her juices like you’ve been starved for ages.

“right there…right there!” she cries out, pretty tits heaving with heavy breaths when you look up at her, reaching for a taut nipple and rolling it between your thumb and forefinger. it only makes ochako’s hold on your hair tighter, and you moan against her heat at the delicious sting.

your lips close in around her puffy clit, hollowing your cheeks to gently suck on it. the two digits you had stuffed into her hole became three, hitting the sweet spot that makes her keen and arch off the pink bedsheets. you’re pretty sure you’re pussydrunk, the praise spilling from ochako’s lips a faint buzz as you keep eating her out, tongue licking long stripes over her dewy slit.

“y/n…think ‘m close, r-really close—”

“mhh, give it all to me, please.”

the rumbling of your hum against her cunt is what tips her over, thighs squeezing you hard enough to give you a head rush, but you’d rather die like this than stop working her through each and every peak. only when her legs fall open you pull away, admiring the fucked out expression etched over ochako’s face.

“c’mere,” she whispers, sitting up as you scoot closer. heat pools in your gut when she starts kissing your tits, and you’re pretty sure you’re leaking when she takes your hand in hers, guiding your slick fingers to her mouth, cleaning herself off your fingers. the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen.

then she looks up at you, with that sweet smile that promises you’re going to get fucking wrecked tonight.

“ready for round two?”

┊┊a/n. happy early pride month <3 i hope everyone gets very gay

────⋆୨♡୧⋆────

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©kamislop 2026, do not copy, translate or upload my works without credit, do not use for AI training

[mamashima]

i...don't even have anything to say. this made me stupid, i fear.

[kamislop]

Dirty dance floors and dreams of naughtiness

✩┊ PART 2 (and final) of I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor - KiriBaku x reader event for 1K!

synopsis: just a girl who accidentally became friends with the bouncers at her favorite club, who just so happen to be two hot best friends!! contents: 18+ MDNI!!! bouncer!Katsuki Bakugou x partygirl!fem!reader x bouncer!Eijirou Kirishima, there's no time for plot so it's just porn, if you guys think bkg is going to have any control here you're in the wrong place, but everyone is a bit of a switch? idk, oral (f. and m. receiving), unprotected piv (don't recommend), spit, anal fingering, anal, double penetration, creampies, multiple orgasms wc. 3.4K

you crossed a line the day you hung out with eijirou and katsuki. the day they stopped being the two hot bouncers you messed around with. yes, the three of you texted on the groupcaht often, even when it wasn’t club related, but that was different.

why? because there’s a big difference between sending each other brainrot memes and planning a threesome. though you don’t really plan a threesome, do you? it’s just something that kinda happens after you go out with two best friends a few times, and one moment you’re at the club they work at giving them fuck-me eyes, the next you’re in the backseat of katsuki’s car making out with eijirou.

“oi, cut it out!” the blond barks from the front, shooting you a scowl over the rearview mirror. “that’s leather, and if you do something it’ll—”

“it’ll - mhhm - what, kats?” eijirou teases, a large hand still groping your ass over the sorry excuse of fabric you call a dress when he breaks the kiss. smirking when you chase after the loss of contact. “it just sounds like you’re jealous to me.”

“big boy bakugou is mad he can’t party with us!” you quip, a heady giggle following the tease. “don’t worry baby, there’s enough of me for both of you,” you add, reaching over to drag a finger over the bulging muscle of katsuki’s bicep, hand tightly wrapped on the gearshift. his only reply was a scoff.

“don’t worry ‘bout him,” eijirou coos, grabbing your jaw to shift your attention back to him. “you said it, he’s a big boy. he’ll live,” he cuts off your laugh with another kiss, drinking in your moan. your thigh is slung over his, and we can feel your growing warmer.

“better go faster,” the redhead warns his friend. “i don’t know how much we’ve got left before she turns into a little beast.”

and go faster he did.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

you kiss katsuki in the elevator. it’s different from eijirou. the blond is clumsier, all smacking lips and harsh paws at your body, but you figured he just grew impatient after driving the whole way from the club blue-balled. he pins you against the wall of the hallway, your hands already dipping down his chest, high on the fervor of his kiss.

“i know one of your biggest dreams is spending a night in jail, but let’s focus on ticking off that threesome box first, eh?” eijirou playfully calls out, waiting on the doorway to his and katsuki’s shared apartment, leaning with his elbow against the dark wooden frame. you pull away with a giggle, not noticing the utterly awestruck expression on the blond’s face. “you’re right, you’re right.”

you lead katsuki down the hall, a finger hooked inside his belt, and for once in his life he doesn’t dare to protest. you get to give the living room a quick look, from the cream-colored woods to the dark, sleek furniture, clashing with the flashy posters hanging next to the tv. it’s a perfect balance.

once inside, eijirou is quick to snatch you from his friend to kiss you, tongue invading your mouth with an impatience that already has you clenching around nothing.

he smiles when he feels your hands pawing at his sculpted chest. “needy girl,” eijirou purrs against your lips. “need your big boys to fill you up, hm? yes, you do…” from over your shoulder, he beckons katsuki closer with a nod of his head. “c’mon don’t just stand there".

the blond stalks over slowly, thankful your back is turned to him so you can’t see just how much of a mess he is, mustering up all the confidence he has (and the countless stupid lessons eijirou gave him that for some fucking reason he actually listened to) to place his hands on your waist.

you ease into his touch immediately, one arm snaking around eijirou’s neck, the other around katsuki’s. “much better,” you grin, kissing eijirou again. his friend can only watch, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress as he watches the two of you, his cock stirring awake once more.

and he curses when you wiggle your ass right against his front, katsuki’s head dipping to your shoulder, where he leaves a few tentative kisses. pride sparks in his chest when you shiver, the redhead greedily swallowing the moan that spills from your lips.

“turn around f’me now, can’t let kats high and dry like this,” eijirou pulls back, and you obediently follow his hands’ guidance, finding yourself face to face with a pair of ruby eyes. “hey,” you chirp, fingers carding through golden gelled hair.

katsuki doesn’t even have the time to answer before your lips are locking with his, a gasp getting caught in his lungs when he can taste something that’s just so eijirou on you. it shouldn’t make him this excited, desire pooling in his gut at your sweetness on his tongue. the redhead gets sidetracked for a minute, watching the blond’s confidence grow, hand trailing all the way down to your ass.

he smirks, going back to his original plan of falling to his knees with a light thud against the carpeted floor neither of you seem to hear. but you sure do feel eijirou gently parting your thighs and bunch up your dress, katsuki holding the fabric up for him like he knew.

“eiji,” you huff. “what are you— oh, fuck!”

there’s no time for you to get used to it, your soppy cunt gushing into eijirou’s open-mouthed french kiss. “mmh, fucking sweet,” he moans, already pussydrunk. “kats, spread her— mmhh open f’me?”

katsuki didn’t really understand what he meant until the redhead grabbed his hand and put it under your asscheek, the other quickly joining and pulling lightly at the plushy flesh. “oh god!” you mewl, arching into the blond’s chest, his face dipping next to your ear. “you like it?” he rasps, biting right below your ear, down to the point where neck meets shoulder.

you let your forehead fall to his chest, nodding frantically. your head’s a mess, eijirou’s tongue tracing maddening circles around your clit before dipping in and out of your hole, wrenching the most sinful squelches. “eiji…eiji, fuck, right there—” you plea, bunching katsuki’s shirt in your fists to hold yourself up.

“d’you hear that, eiji?” the blond mocks you with sudden confidence, guiding your pliable body back and forth on his friend’s mouth. “oh my god,” you gasp, eijirou’s flat tongue pressing over your slit just right. “oh my god, ‘m gonna—” and then you’re shaking, each moan and slurred cry muffled by katsuki’s bruising kiss. their hands are everywhere, holding you up, leaving marks on every inch of skin they can reach.

you’re not sure which one of them carried you to bed after that, you just know you’re laying on a soft mattress, in a room that’s so painfully clear it belongs to katsuki from the lack of personality. the boys’ clothes - along with your own - were scattered in a sinful trail down the hallway, and your mouth is quite literally watering from the sight before you.

they’re all sculpted muscles and chiselled abs, which weren’t difficult to predict from the usual skin-tight, all black outfits they usually wear, but this is on a whole different level. “like what you see?” eijirou teases, flashing you a wide grin that you mirror. “oh, i do,” you purr, eyes jumping between the two friends. and their other sizes weren’t disappointing either— where katsuki’s was longer, eijirou made up with girth.

“what are you guys waiting for?” you held yourself up on your elbows, butterflies flapping erratically in your stomach once they stalk towards the bed. “i want you—” you point your finger at katsuki. “—here,” you tap your parted lips.

“oh, man,” eijirou whines, but he bites back any complaint when you let your knees fall to the mattress, your pussy, still glistening with your slick and his spit, staring right back at him. he almost jumps on the bed.

“fucking watch it,” katsuki barks, his glaring crimson gaze softening when his eyes fall on you, smiling up at him so sweetly and expecting. he climbs on the bed then, careful not to step on anything with his knees. “so bossy,” you quip, looking up at him with big doe eyes.

he grunts, but it quickly turns into a hiss as your hand snakes up his thigh before wrapping firmly around his cock, head flushed in the prettiest dark pink. eijirou watches, stroking himself a few times before letting a fat wad of spit hit his shaft to make the glide smoother when he rubs between your puffy pussy lips. neither of them says it, but they both need to take a deep breath and focus on not cumming from barely being touched. you’re just so pretty, it’s fucking with their brain.

the moment your mouth opens katsuki is pushing inside, your pleased moan vibrating along his length. he throws his head back with a groan, planting a hand above the headboard for balance. for each inch you’re taking down your throat, eijirou is squeezing into your soppy hole, stretching you around his fat cock.

“sooo fucking tight and pretty, fuck…she’s sucking me in,” the redhead praises, thumb easily finding your clit again, still sensitive from before, just to feel your walls flutter around him. you mewl, squeezing your eyes shut and forcing yourself to breathe in through your nose, drool dripping from the corners of your mouth and onto the blond’s shaft.

there’s a collective symphony of the lewdest sounds once you find your rhythm. katsuki’s hands holds your hair in a makeshift ponytail to keep it out of your face, huffin’ n’ puffin’ above you as you stroke his dick, tounge circling his head to milk out every salty drop of precum.

eijirou’s fingers are digging into your hips hard enough to bruise, the neatly kept, red tufts of hair at his base rubbing against your slit, wrenching a whine out of you with each thrust. praises and curses overlap, sometimes fucking into you to match the pace of your head bobs.

you don’t know how long you’ve kept your eyes shut in bliss for, opening them with a jolt when you hear the unmistakable smacking of lips.

and they’re kissing.

eijirou is holding a fistful of blond hair tight, and the way katsuki bites into his friend’s bottom lip, dragging before their tongue fight against each other tells you this is definitely not the first time they’ve done this. you can only watch in awe, hand idly moving up and down katsuki’s dick in slow, lazy stroke, too distracted by what’s happening.

it’s only when eijirou feels you clench around him that he breaks the kiss, a string of saliva connecting him to his friend until it breaks. he smirks. “who told you to stop?” he reprimands halfheartedly, ramming into you with a punishing snap of his hips. “i was just asking kats here if he feeling good. is she making you feel good?”

he doesn’t let go of his hair, tipping his head back enough to see his adam’s apple bob when he nods, mumbling something unintelligible. “what’s that?” the redhead tugs again, then forcefully makes katsuki turn to you. “don’t have to tell me. tell her, tell her how good she’s making you feel. if her mouth is even half as good as this pussy is, it must be pretty fucking amazing.”

you’re stuffing yourself full of katsuki’s cock again, cheeks hollowing and taking him to the base. he’s flushed, abs twitching with every heaving breath. “fucking good…” he pants, the hand he has pressed against the wall balled up into a fist. “your mouth is so fucking good.”

eijirou chuckles, tapping three fingers flat against your clit, his other hand leaving the other’s hair to hold your leg down when you dare closing them around his waist. he looks over to katsuki. “you want to fuck her?” he hopes the question doesn’t come out too strained, masking the fact that he needs to pull out right fucking now or he’s going to cum.

the blond is a mess, your hands playing with his balls are giving him a hard time, damp golden strands glued to his forehead. he can only reply with a whimper, ruby eyes meeting eijirou’s with a pleading look, even though he knows he won’t make it easy for him. “use your words, like a good boy.”

“yes,” katsuki whines, gazing down at you. “please.”

eijirou pulls out, your hole immediately clenching at the loss as you break away from katsuki, leaving his cock throbbing with need. the redhead pats the side of your thigh in a silent command, and you immediately shuffle to the side. “get on top of kats now, alright?”

all it takes is a look for the blond to take position. “oh, he really is your dog, eiji,” you giggle, cupping his jaw and tugging him down for a sloppy kiss. “that’s so fucking hot.”

“i’m nobody’s fucking dog,” katsuki mumbles, his pout only growing deeper when both you and eijirou turn around and look at him. “whatever…”

you snort softly, throwing a leg over the blond’s lap, his hands immediately settling on your hips. your hand wraps around his shaft to line it up with your drooling hole. eijirou’s chest is pressed flush to your back, fingers finding your waist, slowly maneuvering you to sink down on katsuki’s cock. chin resting on your shoulder so you both can watch him fall apart the moment your pussy sucks in the first couple of inches.

then he’s pushing you down all at once, making the two of you moan in unison so loudly when you’re stuffed full. “f-fuck! fuck you, eiji! a little heads up?” you cry breathlessly, hands planted on the blond’s chest. “d-did i hurt you?” katsuki asks, his poor little self trying his best to keep a somewhat seriously worried face through the overwhelming bliss.

“you’re good, you’re good,” you shake your head reassuringly. “your friend is a bitch though,” you add, hearing a snicker coming from behind you. “focus on kats,” eijirou kisses the side of your throat. “you can call me a bitch later, if you want. it was kinda hot.

you roll your eyes, but it’s hard to ignore katsuki’s hips twitching under you, so you start moving your own up and down, slowly, getting used to his size. the stretch doesn’t sting like his friend’s, but with the new angle you swear you can feel him in your fucking lungs.

your breath gets caught in your throat when eijirou’s index finger slides between your asscheeks, slick with spit, circling your puckered entrance. “you’ve done stuff here before?” he rasps in your ear. you nod. “heh, ‘course you have, naughty girl…go lay down for me then.”

you kiss katsuki when you do, a hand in his hair while the other fists the navy blue sheets, bracing yourself. the blond strokes your back, almost reassuringly, as you ride him slowly, groaning loudly in your mouth when your walls clamp down on him. “f-fuck, eiji…” you’re crying out, stretched on two of his fat digits.

“you’re taking us so well,” eijirou coos. “just getting you ready ‘cause this is gonna be a biiiiig stretch,” he spits again, scissoring his fingers until he can fit a third one. “eijirou, she’s going to fucking cut my dick off…shit—” katsuki bites down on your shoulder. “my steak too juicy, my lobster too buttery,” the redhead mumbles. “i can’t wait to feel this tight little ass on me,” he hunches over to press a kiss to your butt before withdrawing his fingers. “buckle up now, both of you.”

“you better be gentle,” you sneer, looking over your shoulder. “or i am cutting your dick off, kirishima.” the only answer you get is a toothy, shit-eating grin.

tears well up in your eyes when eijirous starts easing in, but both boys are worshiping every inch of you that it transcends the painful sting. “oh my god…” katsuki breaks the brief silence. he can feel his friend’s cock sliding so close to him, and your pussy contracting around him is positively short-circuiting his brain.

“what’s up, kats? getting overwhelmed?” eijirou taunts from above, then squeezes your ass. “see that? how about we pick up the pace now?” you flash him a smile, gasping when he grabs a fistful of you hair to pull you up, back arching oh so pretty.

only once he’s sure he won’t hurt you does he start going rough, the double stimulation wrenching screams out of you that bounce off the walls of katsuki’s room. the blond has no clue what to do with himself, panting and gripping the bedsheets so tight he might rip them to shreds. he doesn’t hold an ounce of control over the situation, he can only watch your tits bounce over his face, the pace set by eijirou, who’s drilling into you hard enough he can hear his balls slap against your skin.

“i-i can’t…slow down…oh fuck, oh fuck—” and then he’s spilling inside you. but he’s not sure either of you have realized, because you’re milking him until he’s raw and sensitive and then more. “eiji…please, harder! wan’ you to go harder, fuck!”

katsuki is too fucked out to protest, whining as your pussy gushes his cum and your slick back on him in short sprays, coating his stomach. he might as well be high right now, and whatever it is…he’s fucking addicted. it’s eijirou who snaps him out of his trance. “kats, rub her clit,” he orders, sounding almost as delirious as he feels. “can tell this pretty is close. hm? aren’t you?”

you’re sobbing, hips moving frantically as you try to fuck back into both of them, chasing your own high. “yes! yes, pleasepleaseplease— katsuki, please!” you mewl when his thumb finds your puffy nub, drawing tight circles into it. he pushes himself up to catch one of your nipples between his lips, driving you right over the edge. your orgasm topples eijirou into his own, and katsuki is glad neither of you supposedly didn’t notice his first, because his second load is filling you to the brim.

then there’s silence. well, not really silence, the room filled with heavy breaths as all three of you try to find some semblance of lucidity. you’re moving in slow motion, the boys careful when they’re pulling out of you so you can collapse on the mattress, flanked by their hot bodies.

“that was insane,” you whisper, swallowing loudly the bit of saliva your dry mouth is still able to produce. “insane doesn’t even begin to explain it,” eijirou chuckles. “i’m gonna get some water.”

you turn to katsuki once his friend has left the room. “hey,” you nuzzle your nose into his shoulder. “are you alright?” he nods, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “i’m great,” he replies gruffly. “are you okay?” his fingers brush against the back of your hand.

“i’ll definitely be sore,” you sigh. “haven’t been so flexible in a looong while, y’know?” he chuckles, shaking his head.

eijirou reappears in the doorway, holding a water bottle. “hey, do you know that was katsuki’s first time? i say we ought to celebrate!” you whip to the side, eyes wide and brows brushing to your hairline. “no fucking way!” you cackle loudly.

“yes way!” the redhead laughs, approaching. katsuki pushes himself up on one elbow. “eijirou, what the fuck!” he waves his other hand angrily. eijirou completely ignores his friend to hand you the water, which you take gladly, sipping two big gulps.

“if we don’t count the times i sucked his dick,” he shrugs. you choke, coughing in disbelief.

“oi!” katsuki protests once more.

“yeah, and i sucked his.”

your forehead falls against katsuki’s side, laughing uncontrollably. he can’t do anything but sigh, snatching the bottle from your lips to quench his own thirst. “i hate you guys, by the way.”

eijirou plops down on the bed, the mattress dipping with an obnoxious squeak. “no you don’t,” he pushes katsuki playfully. “aren’t you already thinking about the next time we’re doing this?” you straighten up at that, smiling ear to ear.

“i know i am!”

┊┊a/n. the fact that this took so damn long to get done is a reminder for me to NEVER post an incomplete series ever again and to wait until i've written everything to put it up. ANYWHOO krbk kissing since pride month starts tomorrow lol

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[mamashima]

wow. wowowowowow this needs to be in a museum????

[mamashima]

COMING SOON…

SUGURU AND HIS PRAISE KINK — AN ANALYSIS.

HOW TO SEDUCE YOUR ACADEMIC RIVAL BY IZUKU MIDORIYA. you and izuku are academic rivals. he as a plan—a semi-stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless—a plan to make you fail your last final of the semester. he just has to figure out how to seduce somebody, first... 8.4k.

IZUKU VS JEALOUSY.

I WANNA BE YOUR DOG! that guy keeps talking to you, and satoru doesn’t get what’s so funny... 2.4k.

AM I THE ASSHOLE? eijirō feels like he’s going insane. he wants to fuck his best friends girlfriend, but, like, also his best friend? is he the asshole? ... 5k.

BODY! — A FRAT!JJK MULTI.

WHINE AND DINE. nanako and mimiko have a lonely papa—luckily for him, they’re master matchmakers. (alternatively: kids are always smarter than we think.) ... 6.2k

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

[mamashima]

second month down, third one to go … ofc i finally remember to rb my wip list the month it’s u g l y

[mamashima]

HE’S ALL THAT, AND A BAG OF CHIPS!

❤︎ SYNOPSIS: it’s a high school reunion for jujutsu high, a religious school hidden deep in the woods. you don’t want to attend, but do—and don’t regret it. apparently, Kentō nanami, that little loser you had a crush on in high school, is officially…hot?

❤︎ CONTENT: non-sorcery!au, prom, non-linear story, light hurt/comfort, frenemies to lovers lowk, making out…18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.

❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: semi-unrelated to this fic—high school!au geto is like…chad from hsm, in the sense that he says he doesn’t dance while dancing, and then fucks ryan right after. yk?

♫ NOW PLAYING: seems like old times, vaughn monroe ver.

read on ao3 | 8k words | the barbie ad | masterlist.

TO BE HONEST, you don’t even want to be here.

For you, high school was…an era. In the moment? You had a blast. Looking back? You wish someone had put you on a leash, or placed a shock collar around your neck to buzz every time you did something socially unacceptable. What the fuck were you wearing?

You didn’t have much cognizance of the world around you until college. You barreled through life like the fastest bullet train in Japan—nose-first at 320 kilometers per hour, a little too noisy and definitely too friendly. You had a hand dipped in every clique, every social pot you could find. It took some time, but you found your people—and got comfortable under stairs for lunches, went to arcades and KFC’s just before closing. That summer before college was the highlight of your life.

(Even if your ‘people’ included Satoru Gojō.)

You and Utahime send twin glares across the long limo as Satoru pops a bottle of champagne, just as the car rolls to a stop in front of the venue. He winks at the appalled look on your faces behind a pair of black rimmed Diors.

“What?” He asks, innocent, spreading his arms in a shrug, cork in one hand and bottle in the other. Then, before taking a swig, he catches your eye. “Just because you’re nervous to see Nanami, doesn’t mean you can take it out on me.”

You manage to flip Satoru off before reverie comes over you like warm water.

Ah, Kentō.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have a small crush on the guy back in high school. Okay, maybe more than a small crush, but like, hear me out—

He was handsome, and polite, and kind, yet always managed to put Satoru in his place in such a satisfying way. You’re sure you got on his nerves, but in your memory, he was always sweet to you. Especially about…that whole prom thing.

Your rose tinted memory sings Kentō, with bubbles and roses and a pink background. Funnily enough, he feels like the one that got away.

(Plus, you had a whole thing for emo fringes, back then—don’t even worry about it. One bad boyfriend, and you outgrew your incel-tech-nerd infatuation real quick. Though, Kentō still rings loud and true. Exceptions, for the one that got away.)

He didn’t share many classes with you. Kentō was an academic powerhouse, and you, a perfectly average student. It wasn’t until he transferred into your French II class that you got an excuse to talk to the guy. And, wow, what an excuse it was.

Not that any of it matters now. You’re sure he’s some tech CEO with a girlfriend who’s probably out of his league, possibly wants his money, and hopefully, also loves him. You wonder how much he’s changed—if he’s changed at all. He seemed like a guy who always knew who he was.

“Satoru, you’re not going in with that,” Suguru sighs, and grabs the bottle from slim fingers. Prosecco sloshes over the top against a tight grip, but eventually, Satoru lets it happen with a pout.

“You guys are no fun.”

Shōko is the first to get out. You all single file of the fancy white clown car, and Suguru double checks his phone to ensure it’s the right location. You take a deep breath, and kind of wish it wasn’t.

“O-kay,” Satoru hems, skirting in front of the group. “Everyone got their license, registration, and seat belts buckled with hands on ten and two?”

You blink. So slowly, because—

“How does he have this much energy after a full work day,” Shōko sighs, tossing her empty KFC Diet Coke into a nearby trashcan. (You had to make a pit stop, for old times sake.) “I don’t get it.”

“Allegedly? Cocaine,” you nod, and Utahime points at you with a snap and raised eyebrows, as if to say, yeah, actually.

“Let’s just go inside,” Suguru says, giving you and Shōko and gentle nudge on the shoulder, with a chuckle that betrays him. It earns him a pinch to the spleen.

You wish you had more champagne on the way—maybe downed that bottle Satoru opened before his private limo sped off, and left you with a lack of inexpensive ways home. The bar isn’t particularly quiet, and the second you step past the door, your heart is in your throat.

Like, it’s fine—it’s made of dark walls and floating plants and hexagonal shapes. Something rich, classy, and definitely not your speed. Most of the booths are full, whether it be other ex-students or retired teachers, but no…

No Kentō.

Fucking—Why are you looking?

With a sigh, you follow the rest of your group to a large half-crescent booth in the far back, where mood lighting gets dim in the corners, save for a small exposed bulb hanging above the table. Ideally, you can just camp out here for the rest of the night, and not have to talk to anyone, right?

Everyone shuffles in, just like the limo—with flat hands and flexing thighs. You end up on the edge, and feel a little too exposed for it.

“So,” Utahime bounces, resting her elbows on the table, “who are we the most excited to see tonight?”

“Oh, Yaga for sure. Gotta see if he got grumpier with age,” Satoru snorts.

Shōko looks away, into nowhere, with contemplative finger on her lips. “Y’know, I think he was only grumpy when you were around.”

Satoru gives her a knowing look over his sunglasses, and taps his temple twice. “Because he was intimidated by my mind.”

“Your mind is a hellscape,” Suguru says, scooting to stand from the opposite corner of the booth. “Anyone want anything?”

“Ooh! Aperol Spritz.”

“Mm…I dunno. What beer do they have?”

“White wine! Specifically a Sauvignon Blanc, specifically a New Zealand.”

“Okay, is there a way for them to make me a Shirley Temple, and, like…put alcohol in it? Would that be disrespectful to Shirley.”

Suguru falters with his phone in hand, and sighs.

“…Just text me.”

Everyone clamors their personalized responses, and Suguru disappears into the crowd. Thank God for group chats—everyone sends what they want to order, in their own time. (And Satoru, never, because he’s delusional, and thinks Suguru is just going to remember all that. Except, Suguru might.) Utahime eyes the fancy design on the ceiling.

“Did JJH get more money after we graduated, or is it just me? This place is nice.”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand, “Yeah, it just never went to the dorms. The year before us had prom on a yacht.”

“Wow,” Shōko laughs something bitter, and shakes her head. “They have their favorites.”

“We were a shit year,” you acquiesce. Honestly, if you were a teacher and had to put up with your class’ bullshit, you would’ve agreed to stuff them in the smelly and semi-dilapidated gym for prom, too. “Remember when we snuck out and flipped the chairs in every unlocked classroom we could find?”

“Good times,” Satoru nods, grinning, and tucks a hand behind his head. “When you guys were actually fun.”

“Or immature,” Utahime shrugs.

Satoru types something quick on his phone. Before you can write it off as something casual, something assumedly sent to Suguru, he catches your eye before it drifts, and winks. Again. You kick his shin under the table—his long ass legs were encroaching to your side, anyway.

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” Satoru whines in that way he does when he’s definitely up to something, like you’ve offended him, and swings his arms wide. “I’m cooking—let me cook. I’m like, Chef Gojōyardee, just le—“

“Hey guys!”

You calm your glare and redirect your attention to the person standing at the head of the table, a familiarly cropped jacket, and—oh, it’s Yū, and he looks the exact same.

“I needed extra hands,” Suguru defends, like he dredged up an old memory in the form of a human being on accident. He slides everyone’s respective orders across the table, before taking his rightful place on Satoru’s left.

Utahime is the first to react.

“Yū? Oh my God!” She moves to stand, but her thighs ram into the soft edges of the table, and with a hiss, she sits right back down. “I’m sorta trapped—in the middle, here—but, ugh, I wanna give you a hug! You look good!”

There’s a stranger standing—mm, looming—behind Yū, but you don’t recognize him. Though, you gotta admit—the cyan and tan color combo is kinda killer…and, yeah, just the color combo. Not the body wearing it, or whatever.

“Oh, it’s okay!” Yū waves a hand with an equal amount of energy that Satoru has. Cocaine…it poisons the youth… “We can do hugs later. I just wanted to say hi, and—“

“Here, wait—have a seat,” you gesture across from you, because there’s more than enough room for him, Satoru’s just manspreading to the point where he might as well do a split. You force him into civility by kicking his foot. “C’mon, we need all the deets. What’ve you been up to?”

Satoru shifts, Suguru shifts, and Yū assumes the newly formed space with pride. The stranger steps forward, replacing Yū’s after-image with less enthusiasm. He seems awkward and unsure of himself, and raps a knuckle against the wooden table. Satoru turns to Yū once he sits down, holding a delightful smile that is absolutely terrifying. “Hello, Yū.”

“Hi!”

“And,” he swings his head to the stranger at the head of the table, the one that bites the inside of his cheek. “Hello, Nanamin.”

Um.

No. No. That statement is false. That statement is—

Not-Kentō lets out a long suffering sigh, rolling a shoulder—a very nice, big, muscled shoulder, what the fuck—

“All this time, and you still refuse to say my name correctly.”

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, it is Kentō, he sounds the fucking same.

“Holy shit,” Shōko says with a squint, and you’re just happy it wasn’t you. “Nanami?”

“Hello,” he waves from the hip, with your favorite curt smile from high school. Your brain tries to super-impose the image of his younger self over his current one, but it hurts your head, so you have to stop.

“And, you remember Y/N, right?” Satoru gestures at you with an open palm and a shit eating grin. You give him the most scathing glare you can muster, because the majority of your brain cells run in circles with red blaring alarms, screaming holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—

When did Kentō Nanami get hot?

IT ALL STARTED AT THE DANCE. BARBIE, THE FAMOUS TEENAGE FASHION MODEL DOLL BY MATTEL, FELT THAT THIS WAS TO BE A SPECIAL NIGHT. AND THEN, IT HAPPENED—SHE MET KEN.

“Keeeeeeeeen!”

The full weight of your body slams into the boy in front of you, and he stumbles into the locker in front of him. Luckily, he was still twisting his combination into the lock, and steadies himself easy. Kentō scowls at you under a blond fringe.

“Get off of me.”

“Aren’t you so excited,” you wrap both arms around his neck, perfectly manicured nails curling under his nape, and Kentō doesn’t get it—at all. Doesn’t get you.

Why the fuck are you talking to him?

He manages to find the inner strength to shove you off, and redo his locker combination. You let him, leaning against the locker next to his. “We’re gonna blow Satoru and Suguru’s project out the fucking water.”

Kentō’s locker clicks open, and he sighs. “Something tells me I’ll be doing the majority of this project.”

“Hey!” You half-heartedly pout—half-hearted, because you’re also double-checking your makeup in the mirror that you put in his locker. Apparently, ‘everything of yours is so boring, Kentō, you gotta liven up the place!’ “I always do my part on group projects, thank you.”

And—Kentō doesn’t really know whether you will or not, so he supposes it’s on him for assuming, but refuses to give you the satisfaction of knowing that thought. No, instead he grabs his AP Calculus textbook with a grunt, and eyes the flaccid state of your backpack.

“How do you even have time to follow me in-between classes? Don’t you use your locker?”

“Nope!” You beam with an absolute and unadulterated joy that he thinks he’ll forever find a little off-putting. Reaching around awkwardly to pat the Jansport, you say, “I got everything I need right here.”

Kentō is almost positive there isn’t much but a laptop.

“I—” he starts to argue, before realizing there isn’t much point, you’ve attached yourself to his shadow regardless, and it’s annoying. It’s annoying, and he’s sure you have better things to do—more popular people to socialize with—but no, for some reason you’re here, in makeup a little too mature for your age and wide eyes that betray it all, and Kentō wants to ram his head into the brick wall. He doesn’t get it.

You’re not even in any of his classes except French, and yet, you pick him up and drop him off at each one with a ‘hi, Kentō!’ ‘bye, Kentō!’ And, this aforementioned Kentō feels like he’s going to implode every. Single. Time.

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the bit.

“Never mind,” he exhales, closing his locker with a heavy hand. You stand up straighter to follow him down the hall, and he lets you.

AND SOMEHOW, SHE KNEW THAT SHE AND KEN WOULD BE GOING TOGETHER.

“And, you remember Y/N, right?”

“I do,” and Kentō gives you a tight lipped smile, one that you can’t fully read. God, does he, like, hate you now? You knew your memory was false. You knew you totally annoyed him in high school. You knew—

“Sit, sit!”

But, Satoru’s gesturing to the space next you—not like there is any, so Satoru quits his manspreading properly. Utahime shifts as close to him as she can tolerate, and Shōko scoots next to her, and now, you have to scoot, because if not, you look like an asshole who doesn’t want him here.

The question is: do your legs work.

You manage. You also almost drop the open purse in your lap in the process, forgetting about it in the chaos—and that would’ve been really embarrassing, if you had to duck under the table to grab the portable razor you insist on bringing everywhere. A woman’s purse is not for prying eyes.

Kentō sits next to you, all…however many pounds of him, and he smells…God. He smells. That’s all you can say—he smells, and you want to bottle that smell, and spray it on your pillows every night and maybe a sweatshirt or two. You knew this was a mistake—you knew Satoru was up to no good—and now, you want to leave, but you’re decisively stuck between Shōko and…and…

“How have you been?”

It’s the familiar voice coming out of such an unfamiliar body that sends you for a loop. When the loops done, you’re a little dizzy, but also, kind of want to go again. And then, you realize Kentō’s looking at you—asking you—and you can’t go again, because you have to lock in and function like a normal adult. Right. Right.

“Ah, good! How about you, what’ve you been up to?”

“Not much,” he admits with a shrug, resting his forearms on the table. “Basic accounting—desk job, good benefits.”

You snort. Rigid as always.

“Mm…sounds boring,” you hum, fighting that feeling when he lets a snort and a smile slip.

“It’s work,” he shrugs again, and respectfully, you couldn’t give a shit about work right now. Accounting is boring and you want to know how much he can bench press—

“You?”

Right. Conversation. Conversation.

“U-Uh,” you snap your jaw shut before he can see, but you notice Satoru cheesing in your peripheral, earning him a heel to the toes again. “I work—I mean, I write, uh, like, nonfiction, and stuff, um—how much do you bench press?”

Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck.

Champagne in the limo did not do you well.

Kentō lifts an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Um—! That’s not, I didn’t—”

“I don’t think that’s a question you should go around and ask people,” he says, but the corners of his lips twitch, which means you haven’t fucked up too bad, right?

“I—well, it’s for science,” you splutter, but honestly, nice fucking save. “For uh, a thing, I’m writing.”

Kentō eyes you over his shoulder, and they’re hazel—have they always been hazel? “You need to know my workout routine…for ‘a thing you’re writing.’”

You nod.

“Correct.“

“350.”

Good Lord.

SO NOW, MATTEL BRINGS YOU KEN, BARBIE’S BOYFRIEND—

“Are you guys dating?”

Kentō wants to crawl in a hole and die.

“No,” he grunts, trying to contain his irritation. This is Yū, and Yū doesn’t mean anything by it.

Lunch is Kentō’s least favorite time of the day. Which is ironic, because he loves the culinary arts—but the cafeteria is far too much of a war zone for him to enjoy anything properly. So, peanut butter and jelly sandwich it is. The war zone doesn’t prevent him from finding you in the crowd, however, sitting on a table with swinging legs. You talk with animation and wildly gesticulating hands. Suguru leans on your knees to listen, and Satoru plays with the ends of your hair until you slap him away.

“Definitely not,” Kentō mutters, picking at a corner of his sandwich. You catch his eye from across the cafeteria, through the shifting seas full of students and overbearing teachers. You pull Suguru’s hand off your lap, and start to sashay in Kentō‘s direction with a brand new smile and a pep in your step. He doesn’t get it.

Yū doesn’t hear his grumbling—definitely doesn’t hear his internal train of thought—and returns your wave right before you get caught between cheermates. You answer their questions, giggling politely, but your eyes keep drifting to Kentō’s with an impatience. He’s convinced this has be some overly elaborate prank, or some Machiavellian attempt to get him to do your homework for the rest of time.

(And, the worst part is—he would.)

Once it’s clear that you’ll be stuck for a while, Yū turns back to him. “Really? She follows you everywhere.”

“We’re doing a group project.”

It sounds like bullshit when he says it aloud. (Because, it is bullshit.)

But, either Yū is too gullible or doesn’t like to get invested in other people’s lives, because he asks no further questions. This is why they’re acquaintances. (Friends.)

“Keeeeeeen!”

Kentō jumps, because he got distracted, and didn’t have enough time to prepare, and you’re blinding. That, and you’re right there, there is absolutely no reason to yell.

“What,” he groans. A dull throb begins to form behind his eyebrows the moment you make him scoot with a shove of your hips. You drape the side of your body against his shoulder, like you do every time. And, like he does every time, “Get off of me.”

“Be my prom date.”

Kentō stiffens.

That’s when he realizes that this is a prank—that this is like those movies Yū makes him watch sometimes, where the protagonist is given a dare to win some loser. Except, this isn’t Hallmark, or Netflix, this is real life, and she does not fall for the loser because said loser is a loser. It’s a honeytrap so sweet he can taste it—and it rots his teeth and tears at the lining of his cheeks.

Nanami Kentō may be a loser, but he is not that loser.

“No.”

You plow forward, unfazed, twisting your body until the back of your head digs into his shoulder. “Awh, c’mon, why not?”

It’s too easy.

“I don’t do prom.”

—WITH A COMPLETE WARDROBE OF URGENTLY TAILORED CLOTHES OF UNMATCHED QUALITY!

“350.”

“Ooh. Nice, nice,” you nod. So cool, very cool, because you are just that—cool. Small talk sucks, and honestly, you just want to throw yourself into his side and just pick up where you two left off, but you can’t anymore, not with your newfound self-awareness. Not with those shoulders. “Um…I like your outfit.”

Kentō looks down at himself, then at your outfit, probably to compliment you the same with a frustrating politeness, but his eyes get…stuck. Either, they get stuck, or you’re just stupid now—both of which are equally valid prospects, and both of which are probably equally correct. Then, you blink, and his eyes have returned to yours like they never left.

“You look good, too.”

Which—not what you said, but you’ll take it. Take it and run, actually. Fucking sprint.

“Thank you,” you try to keep your smile curt, and ignore the way the simple compliment ignites your whole being. Kentō looks like he’s debating on saying something, massaging his lips while he watches you, and your body is wholly unsure on whether it wants to shrink or soar.

“Remember when you spilled coffee on my shirt?”

“I—” you bluster, because you aren’t exactly sure what you thought he was going to say, but definitely not that. You find yourself laughing at the memory all the same, though, “Okay, you bumped into me—”

Kentō sucks his lips in protest. “I did not, I believe my eyes were in front of me, nor was I walking—”

“That shirt was ugly, anyway,” you defend with all the petulance of a child. Kentō rolls his eyes, but smiles soft, and shifts to face you better.

“That was my favorite shirt.”

You burst into a series of giggles. He’s not far behind, with a chuckle hidden behind an arm as he places a hand to his forehead.

“Ugh, guys, I’m bored!”

Satoru’s shrill voice cuts through your laughter, through your jubilation, and you remember that you’re in a room with other people—not an empty and endless void with nothing but Nanami Kentō. How disappointing.

“Ooh! Let’s go to the arcade, I heard it’s still open?”

The arcade has your interest piqued, though. Looking at the man beside you again, you nudge him in the shoulder. (Yes, the very nice, very muscled shoulder, and wow, the feel—) “Still hate video games?”

Kentō shrugs.

“I can make exceptions.”

NOW, KEN AND BARBIE MEET FOR LUNCH AT SCHOOL, GO TO FRATERNITY PARTIES, AND JUST RELAX TOGETHER!

“Ken.“

“No.”

“Ken.”

“No.”

“Ke—“

“I’m not going to prom with you. Stop asking.”

You…You are insatiable.

Kentō was just trying to read. Kentō was just trying to read, and soak up some sun, and relax outside for once, but no, of course you fucking find him and flounce over in that stupid skirt he hates in an effort to make his life infinitely harder. He doesn’t get it.

He says no, but you keep asking. So, he keeps saying no, and you keep asking. Is there money on the line, or something?

You just whine, and take a seat in the grass beside him. It’s hot today, but with enough of a breeze that the sun is refreshing, and the majority of the students took to the Quad after class to socialize. Kentō, who didn’t want to socialize, went out of his way to find an empty field with a tree (because, Jujutsu High has a lot of those—fields and trees) and planted himself. For some reason, though, you’re sweating. And panting.

He shouldn’t ask.

“Are you…okay.”

He has to force himself to commit halfway, and it sounds more of resignation than interrogation, but you either don’t hear it, or don’t care.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” you heave, lifting a hand from your hips to fan at your face, while the other stays braced. You swallow, and it looks painful. “I was just—y’know—running—”

You can’t get much out between pants, and eventually, you give up and double over. With a sigh, Kentō fishes in his bag to grab an unopened disposable water bottle, and shoves it in your field of vision.

You take it without question, like you’re friends or something—which, he cannot emphasize the fact that you are not—and rip the cap open, slightly jamming the seal. You take gulp after gulp, exhaling and grunting like a toddler and crushing plastic beneath your fingertips. It should be weird. It should be disgusting.

And, yet.

Kentō watches as water escapes from the haphazardly placed bottle between your lips, watches it slide to your chin and roll beneath your jawline, and he wants to lick it off. He wants…he wants—

“Thanks,” you grunt, still a little out of breath from chugging, and wipe at the bottom of your face with the back of your hand. You hold the destroyed water bottle out for him. Kentō wants to put his head in the dirt.

“…Keep it.”

THINK OF THE FUN YOU’LL HAVE TAKING BARBIE AND KEN ON DATES! DRESSING EACH ONE JUST RIGHT.

“Fuck yeah!”

The puck hits the back of the goal with a metallic clank, and the air hockey field quiets its whirr. Game over. Kentō sighs and drops his head, upper body outstretched in the position that he failed to block your absolutely amazing ricochet in.

“No more games,” he decides with a sigh, and brushes back the stray hairs that escaped his perfectly gelled part. You snort, crossing your arms and jutting out a hip of success.

“Why? Tired of losing?”

It’s a joke, but the look he gives implies his response is not.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” you let him live, and decide not to pick another game. That is—until your eye catches a claw machine, but that doesn’t even count as a game, right? Grabbing him by the forearm, you tug him left. “Ooh! Lemme win you something!”

Kentō snorts, but again, this is not a game, definitely not one he has to play. So, he indulges, and follows the finger you have pressed against the glass.

“Whad’ya want?”

He lifts an eyebrow, studying your confidence. “We should see if you can get one, first.”

You choke on his audacity, placing a hand over your heart in faux offense. With a huff and a free hand, you put a few coins into the machine. It lights up with a bubblegum pop theme song. “Fine, then—never mind. You don’t deserve it.”

He chuckles, leaning an arm against the machine. “Get me a Teddy Bear, then.”

“Which one?” You groan once you realize the absolute quantity of Teddy Bears in the thing—ugly and cute ones, pink and blue ones, ones that look less like bears and more like vaguely human shaped radishes. The majority of the prize options are Teddy Bears. There’s the option to grab a phone, but it’s somewhere in the mess of multi-colored fluff, and the picture looks to be an iPhone 13.

“I’m not picky,” he shrugs, and you bristle, but the machine is about to start, and you don’t know if there’s a timer. You let out a focused exhale and begin rattling the joystick against its frame. And, you get close—really close.

But, the tan bear’s limbs are weak and boneless and flimsy, and the second the claw hits the ceiling of the machine, the bears paw slips through the useless thing and lands in a pile. The claw resets.

You groan, and put in two more coins.

ATTEMPT #1 (#2?) — You grab a blue bastard by its neck, but its head is too heavy. It rolls right out of the claw.

ATTEMPT #2 (#3?) — You grab a pink one by its waist, but the claw is slightly off, and doesn’t make it far.

ATTEMPT #3 (#4?) — So close. So close, and then the claw does something weird, you don’t know—all you know is that it wasn’t your fault. You had that one, dammit.

“It’s fucking rigged,” is the only conclusion you can come to. Even if you haven’t touched a claw machine since early high school. You swore it was easier than this.

“No, you’re just getting impatient,” Kentō schools, and you stick your tongue out. But then, he’s moving behind you, hand encompassing yours over the joystick, and, do guys still grow after high school? You swear he wasn’t this tall at graduation.

“Put in another coin.”

Right.

You dig into your pockets with a free hand and shakily feed them into the machine. Be cool, be fine, be chill—

“Okay,” he says as the machine sings again, a song you’re officially sick of hearing, and you feel his chest rumble against your back. “The trick is to be gentle—just because you move the joystick all aggressive doesn’t mean the claw is going to move any faster.”

You’re trying to focus, really, but all you can really feel is his breath against your neck and the heat of his hand. You probably look a little silly, a little dazed and confused, but thank your lucky stars that the glass of the machine isn’t too reflective.

As the claw lowers, you prepare to press the red button in time. But then, his other hand snakes across yours, and you’re stuck. He presses it for you, and out comes a Teddy Bear in your favorite color. It drops into the dispensary bin with ease.

“That’s not fair,” you at least have the wherewithal to say something, instead of just breathing heavy with glassy eyes. Lock in, lock in. Kentō just chuckles, pulls the bear out by its waist and hands it to you. “I—Hey, this is supposed to be yours!”

“You were also supposed to win me a prize,” he reminds with a lift of his eyebrow, and the joints in your knees melt.

Not fair.

YOU’LL FIND KEN WHEREVER TOYS ARE SOLD. LOOK FOR THE SPECIAL TAG THAT TELLS YOU HE’S A GENUINE KEN!

“Hey.”

You don’t really want to talk to anyone right now, but you manage a people pleasing smile.

“Hi.”

Kentō sits next to you with his overstuffed bag, always over prepared, over packed, with spares in his locker. You usually run into situations head first, and figure it out from there. Maybe, that’s your problem. Maybe, that can be your new excuse.

“I haven’t seen you all day.”

That comment makes you laugh. It’s wet, and a little bitter, but a laugh nonetheless. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only one who thinks so.

Kentō looks weird at night. Jujutsu High is far away enough from civilization that you can see more stars than you can back home, but not all of them. That’s kind of what Kentō feels like, a little bit—distant and flickering. Fake. Like a doll.

What the fuck are you saying? You need to go to bed.

You’re not sure where the crush started. The group project, maybe? Does it matter?

“I’m serious.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, hoping it’s too dark to see dried tear tracks. “Why do you always have a backpack?”

“That has no bearing on what I just said.”

You laugh again, running a down your face. The roof’s kawara tiles hurt your back like a bitch, but it was a pain in the ass to get up here. Probably going to be a pain in the ass to get down, too.

“I think it’s a valid question,” you shrug the best you can from your lying position. Kentō reclines to meet you, hands resting by his navel.

For a moment, you two sit in silence and study the stars. You watch one blink, can’t tell if it’s moving or not, whether it’s a plane or a star. You find the Little Dipper for the twelfth time tonight, tracing Kochab to Polaris and back again. Kentō sighs, shifts. Tries to get comfortable in all the ways that you have failed, and with a huff, starts digging into his bag. It’s not until he pulls out a textbook that you realize what he’s doing.

“Ooh, smart,” you say, and start making grabby hands in his direction, because you know he has another. “Gimme.”

With a roll of his eyes, he passes you the textbook he already held, while he grabs another to make for vague pillows. You tuck it under your head, and though it’s not super comfortable, it alleviates some of the pressure from your back.

“Nice,” you give a firm nod of approval. He snorts, fights a small smile, and fails.

“That’s why I always have a backpack.”

You giggle, and watch him watch the stars.

“You’re a dork.”

“Yeah, well,” Kentō turns his head, and the small smile breaks into a grin—a little shy, but wide and unadulterated and just for you. “I’m starting to think you’re not much better.”

GET BOTH BARBIE AND KEN—

“—and then,” you take a second to bite, chew, and swallow half of your own french fry before continuing. “Yaga made us run a mile, all because Shōko couldn’t stop snickering at his botched hair cut, it was so fucked up.”

Kentō nods—although he wasn’t in your year, P.E. was the only class he failed (twice—no, he will not talk about it), and Yaga was a definitive pain. But, he finds that he couldn’t care less about Yaga, or Physical Education, or the fact that he failed twice, because his mind starts to wander. Wandering into wondering if there’s a way to put you in a glass box and watch you talk for hours, before realizing that’s probably awfully misogynistic, somehow, and definitely not a thought a normally functioning adult should have. All these years later, and he’s still severely wrapped around your finger. All these years later, and he still doesn’t get it.

You’re beautiful.

You’re beautiful, and now, you’re checking your phone for the time. Kentō checks his watch too, and—

“Ah shit,” you sigh, deflating a little. “It’s late. I got work in the morning.”

He does too, and probably shouldn’t ruin his sleep schedule more than he already has just to talk for a few more minutes. You perk up, looking around and frowning when you can’t find any familiar faces.

“…Where did everyone go?”

“Oh, they’re in there,” Kentō says with confidence, also scanning…scanning…until he remembers that Satoru is a conniving motherfucker. He severely hopes his acquaintance wouldn’t stoop that low. “Somewhere, I’m sure.”

You sigh, stretching arms above your head. Kentō watches your stomach stretch, and quickly stamps out the fire in his belly. “Ugh. Time to go people diving—we all came together.”

His mouth starts moving, against his better judgement, before he has time to evaluate. To assess.

“I could take you home.”

Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck.

“I mean,” he coughs into a fist, but no amount of damage control will undo what he just said, ”If you can’t find Shōko. I—I drove, so.”

You hum for a moment, swaying, before, “Nah, fuck ‘em. Lets Irish Goodbye those bastards!”

“…That seems like a recipe for disaster.”

“I’ll text them,” you amend with a wave over your shoulder, and quickly scoot out the booth. Kentō follows suit, but he doesn’t move fast enough, and you start grabbing at his wrists. “C’moooon!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

AND SEE WHERE THE ROMANCE WILL LEAD.

“Fine.”

“W-Wait, really?”

Kentō glares. Honestly, he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to laugh in his face, for you to say you got him so good and are about to get so much money, but you don’t. Isn’t this where he’s supposed to find out, in the movie? At the prom, maybe. Or, whispers from behind his back.

He doesn’t know. He just knows you make him do questionable things.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You look really pretty on prom night.

Kentō has been, admittedly, very nervous, and is even more so at the bottom of the stairs. He watches you walk down, and tries his hardest to avoid fiddling with the corsage. Don’t look nervous. Don’t look nervous, don’t look nervous, don’t look—

“You nervous?” You’re smiling at him, bending over to interrupt his staring contest with the floor, and Kentō catches your eyes with a bristle.

“No,” but his voice cracks, and there’s a flush raising from his neck that says otherwise. He knows there’s a flush, because he feels fucking faint, holy shit—

“You look, um,” Kentō swallows, tries again. “You look very pretty.”

“Thank you,” you beam, standing up straight before brushing off his shoulder. “You look cute, too.”

Which—not what he said, but he’ll take it. Take it and run, actually. Fucking sprint.

“Awh, look at my daughter and her date! Say cheese!”

Prom isn’t as bad as Kentō thought it’d be.

It was a little stuffy, but that was to be expected. The adults watch the dance floor like a hawk, snapping whenever kids of opposing genders get too close, and Satoru sneaks alcohol into the venue. Your parents are strict enough, so an after party is off the menu (thank God), leaving the two of you to watch Pirates of the Caribbean in the living room until someone deems it time for him to go home. You stuff microwave popcorn into your mouth with a fist, and get kernels all over your oversized shirt. Kentō snorts.

But, again, there’s the question that’s been hanging over his head for the past few months, one that he can’t figure out the answer to, no matter how many context clues he finds. He’s confused. He doesn’t get it.

“Hey, um,” his eyebrows bend, because how does he ask this without sounding like an absolute loser. “Was this…um…tonight…?”

“Mm, yes Kentō, speak to me with eloquence,” you giggle, building a frame around his face made of index fingers and thumbs, and he swats at it.

“I’m serious.”

You brush a few kernels off and nod, giving him time to work out his thoughts. Honestly, Kentō wishes he didn’t have time—because he knows what he wants to say, but saying it is absolutely pathetic.

He bites the bullet, regardless.

“Was this a dare?”

You snort, sitting up with a tilt to your head. “Was what a dare?”

“Like,” Kentō sighs, gesturing between the two of you, “this, prom, was it a dare.”

You squint your eyes. Not glaring, just…examining. “Wow, you think that low of me, huh.”

“That has nothing to do with that, although, yes,” he covers, and it earns him a well meaning shove to the shoulder. “But um, no. I was just wondering.”

Kentō’s not sure if the pressure in his chest has lifted or sunk. He’s not sure whether he believes you.

But, the conversation ends there. Your mom pokes a head in and says it’s time for him to go home, so he does. You graduate a few months later, and leave for college a few months after that. He never sees you again.

IT COULD LEAD TO THIS!

Is Kentō supposed to let you go, again? Is that how this night is supposed to end?

“Thanks for the ride,” you smile, and Kentō hates that he’s going to miss the image of you in his passenger seat, especially when you’ve only been in it for about fifteen minutes. Pathetic. “Tonight was fun! We should, um, hang out soon, or something.”

Kentō nods. You don’t make any movements to leave. He doesn’t make you.

Does he listen to his heart, for once, instead of his head?

“We should,” he says, and hopes that it’ll come to fruition. He has to remind himself that ’we should hang out soon’ is a formality, never a promise, rarely a want. He tries anyway, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. “Drinks, or something.”

“Yeah,” you nod, massaging lips together in a way that betrays your nerves. And Kentō, perpetually afraid of reading you wrong, feels eighteen again, and in all the worst ways.

Is he supposed to let you go—

“So, um—”

“Actually, I—”

—again?

You laugh as your words stumble over his, eyes crinkling. His chest fills with a warm feeling he didn’t realize was gone. He smiles, resting is head against the leather seat.

“What were you going to say?”

“Oh no,” you laugh it off with a wave, adjusting to get a better look at him. “It’s—it was really stupid, actually, so like—”

“Well. You’ve peaked my interest, now,” Kentō looks at you in the eyes, and your smile turns bashful.

“Uhm—no, it’s not even—it’s such a small thing, y’know—”

Greed gets the better of him, and Kentō pokes you in the side, snorting when you squeal. “Tell me.”

You groan, slamming the side of your body into the car seat, and pout. All in that order. Very dramatic.

“No, I was just,” your fingers start fiddling with the seatbelt, eyes looking anywhere but his, “I was just gonna say, like, um, I liked you a lot, in high school, y’know? I mean—you probably do know, I wasn’t subtle, especially the whole prom thing, but like, I wanted to, um—sorry, for all that? Like—“

Kentō frowns. You’re apologizing?

“You’re apologizing.”

“Uh, yeah,” you breathe laugh, and it’s shaky. “‘Cause, like—”

“Why are you apologizing.”

“Let me speak, Idiot,” you grunt, the unsteady smile melting into a solid frown. He concedes, you swallow. “I guess…I was a lot, back then. Still am, if I’m being honest, but now I have, like, a semblance of social cues to realize I was disturbing your peace. And, for that, I apologize.”

You finish the sentence with a degree of finality, like everything you stated is fact and can be found in an encyclopedia. Kentō’s internal council are losing their minds, each member for different reasons—all wholly unhelpful.

‘She liked us!’

‘Tell her!’

‘Yes, but could she still like us?’

‘We’ll make her l—‘

‘Back in the box—back in the box!’

Kentō exhales out of his nose, sharp and heavier than intended—also, with a degree of finality. Acceptance.

“I liked you, too.”

That gets you to look at him, head whipping so quick it makes your earrings quiver. Kentō remembers this part from Yū’s movies too, but a different one—where the characters either act on it now, or leave their words to rot for five more years of unnecessary longing. Maybe a lifetime. His chest shudders with another breath. He doesn’t want to let you go again.

Spit it out, Kentō.

He needs to stop picking at the gearshift.

“And, I don’t know…if those feelings have fully left, necessarily.”

Something in your eye glistens, and you clear your throat. Kentō thinks it’s a good sign—he also lacked a proper understanding of social cues in high school, and feels himself lagging in that department to this day. But, he thinks—

“Yeah, same,” you say, a little breathless, and Kentō’s pulse is confused on what to do—calm down or sky-rocket—and he feels the sudden urge to pass out. How many people did he save in his past life to get here?

Luckily, you ask for him—he doesn’t know how he would’ve managed, to be honest.

“Can I kiss you?”

He’s nodding, and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt. Then, your lips are on his, just like that. Easy.

The angle is awkward, but neither of you care. The tight coil of butterflies in his stomach bursts into something beautiful, into something uncontainable, as his hand finds your waist to confirm that, yes, you are real, and yes, this is happening. Your hands grab his cheeks and tug him closer, but you pull too quick, and his seatbelt locks.

“Fucking—stupid ass seatbelt.“ You pull away to unbuckle it for him, but it gets caught under his left arm in attempt to recoil, buckle slamming into his shoulder.

“Ow,” he groans, and threads his arm through, before leaning over the center console. You pop your neck.

“Should’ve taken it off yourself, then.”

“You didn’t let me,” he chuckles the fact, full of all the things he never lets himself feel. You smile, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Your forehead knocks into his, and Kentō has never cared less about wasting gas in his life.

“You move slow,” you say, but it’s lacking fire and it’s quiet, like it’s just for him. Then, Kentō realizes it is just for him, and the beast in his chest rattles its cage a little harder.

With a snort, he presses his lips to yours again. You hum into the kiss and he lets the vibrations wash over him, roll into the sea, letting the wave drown him just because it can. The windows start to fog, teeth start to clash, and hands get desperate—when Kentō pulls away, you whine.

“That’s it,” he says, more to himself, more of a down boy, “I can’t—I want to take you on a date, first.”

He feels just as breathless as you look, chest heaving with kiss swollen lips. And Kentō, a man of principles, wants to break them for the first time. Wants to watch them shatter, and dance across the shards.

Especially when you mewl, and the hands in his hair drop to his chest to grab his shirt and tug.

“C’mon,” you whine, pouting and batting your lashes in a way that would’ve gotten him to do your homework, once. “That’s not fair—kissing me stupid just to leave me high and dry is not how this works.”

Kentō shudders an exhale, and the hands on your waist tighten.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers, and questions who kissed who stupid. ”Six. I’ll pick you up.”

You huff when you understand you won’t get your way. Thank God, because if you didn’t—

“Fine,” the sigh is wistful, but agreeing. “What should I wear?”

Kentō shrugs. “You look beautiful in everything.”

You gawk, and give him good natured slap to the shoulder.

“Ken! Take me on a date first—my goodness.”

AND REMEMBER: YOU CAN TELL IT‘S MATTEL—IT’S WELL!

[EXTRA]

“She’s what?”

For once, Kentō lets his frustrations at Yū slip. For once.

“I didn’t know!” The brunette defends himself over the phone, poorly, if Kentō may add. He nearly trips into a coat rack from tugging on a pair of loafers, all while cradling the phone to his ear with a shoulder. This night has just gone from bad, to horrible, to worse, and he’s still reeling from the whiplash. “‘Toru literally just texted and said ‘oh, let Ken know Y/N’s gonna be here tonight, FYI,’ literally five seconds ago! Hence my SOS!”

Fuck your SOS, Kentō wants to say, but he keeps it together. Barely.

He’s going to strangle Satoru Gojō and then himself. And make Yū watch.

He and Satoru never spoke in high school—at all, actually. But, they attended the same college, and once Satoru realized that he knew a ‘baby freshman’ on campus, he insisted on taking Kentō under his wing. (Read: harassment.) They, unfortunately, had enough time to get to know each other. Enough time for Kentō to drunkenly spill his guts (a lapse in judgement—a severe lapse in judgment, Kentō cannot begin to elaborate how severe) about a particular head cheerleader from their high school. Once Satoru gave him that fucking smile and said ‘oh,’ Kentō knew he was fucked.

He just thought Satoru forgot, or assumed Kentō moved on like a healthy adult—which, he did, he has, he just…misses you, sometimes, and hasn’t been with anybody in any regard—because, five years later? That’s too much.

Kentō ends up knocking over the coat rack anyway, trying to find a second shoe.

Fuck. He’s fucked. He’s still wearing his suit from work, too tired and lacking proper time to change—he’s leaving now, why did Yū call him now?—and probably looks like shit after a full work week. Kentō wasn’t even supposed to attend this stupid reunion, but Yū begged, and one does not simply say no to Yū Haibara without feeling like the worst person on the planet.

He fails to weasel his foot in the second loafer, so he just stomps it on, with no integrity for the shoe, because fuck it at this point. Yū seems to be able to hear it from the other side of the line.

“Okay, Kentō, let's take a deep breath—"

Do not tell him to take a deep breath.

But, because Kentō is a good acquaintance (friend), he listens, and takes a deep breath, and corrects the coat rack to grab the suit jacket that fell, along with every other coat he owns.

“Whatever. I’m on my way.”

He slings the jacket over his shoulder and shoves the front door open, walking into the cool night air. Yū chirps from the phone.

“Okay! I’ll let you know when I’m there!”

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

taglist; @kamislop, @tokkushin...

[mamashima]

“I WANNA KISS YOUR 80’S FACE!”

❤︎ SYNOPSIS: mha men in the 80s! what could possibly go wrong?

❤︎ CONTENT: rollerskating with katsuki, strangers to flirters, record shop with shinso, best friends to lovers, tetsutetsu cameo, boy next door!denki, childhood friends to lovers, buff!denki, so sorry i had to blasphemize the resident twink, tech whiz!denki, play wrestling, arcade date w kiri, idk how 80s photo booths work and i’m not willing to do the research to find out, do know that i tried tho, semi-public makeout sesh, drive-in movie with hanta, cockwarming fail, semi-public sex, dubcon?, penetrative, hold the moan. 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.

❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: okay, so technically you’re playing a version of street fighter ii and that came out in ‘91, but shhhhh…

6.8k words | masterlist.

HOT STUFF, DONNA SUMMER—KATSUKI BAKUGŌ.

YOU HATE rollerskating.

You like it on principal—for all intents and purposes, it seems fun, but you have the coordination of a new born giraffe. If you and your friends went enough, then sure, you’d probably buy your own pair of skates and teach yourself in a parking lot. But, they don’t so you don’t, and you’re trying to save money to move out.

The disco music is loud, and the blinding multi-colored lights are even louder. You adjust your tights before hobbling across a carpet with geometric designs over to the rink, resting all of your body weight on the walker—because yes, you got the thing for babies and old people, but it’s better than clutching the grimy wooden half-wall for dear life, only to still fall. Mina skates beside you, giving you the space to work your way into the rink. Her glittery eyeliner sparkles under shifting lights.

“You got it, Girl?”

“Yes,” you hiss, fighting back the embarrassment of being one of the few people with wobbly knees as you finally stumble past the threshold. She waits beside you with open palms just in case. Typically, Jiro and Denki come with, and they join Mina in running laps around amateurs while you sit and watch in a pair of skates (because, you have to rent a pair to enter) and cherry slurpee in hand. But today, your comfortable seat on the bleachers and slurpee are a distant memory, and all your energy pours into you to avoiding a face plant. Maybe, you can ditch this once your feet hurt, and just watch Mina from the other side of the rink. It’s more fun that way.

“Are y—” You turn your head to speak, but an aggressive rush of wind followed by the smell of burnt sugar makes the flyaways rattle against your neck. You look around once ensuring your stability, current thought process absolutely lost, while you try to figure out what the hell could go that fast other than a fucking car.

Ah. A man.

It was relatively easy figure it out—you don’t know how you didn’t notice him before. The gust came from the guy who is now across the rink, skating backwards with crossing legs and hands tucked into pockets like it’s natural. A sturdy jaw clenches around a toothpick, and the gray t-shirt tucked into his jeans batters against his chest, short sleeves rolled atop muscular shoulders. You can’t tell whether his hair is flaxen blond or snow white thanks to the dim lighting, but you refuse to engage, trading one heart palpitation for another, as you begin shuffling across the hardwood floor very, very slowly.

“Ooh, Hot Stuff at seven o’clock,” Mina notes as she steps into the rink much easier than you did. She’s happily taken, and only pointing him out for your single self. You scoff and remove the focused tongue that found its way between your teeth.

“Absolutely not.”

And then, aforementioned Hot Stuff has the absolute audacity to bolt past you again, nearly toppling you over from the fear of it. “Aren’t fast skaters supposed to go on the inside?”

Mina just shrugs, drifting slowly until she’s in between you and the wall. You’re able to forget about Hot Stuff for a while, and your pink possessed friend drones on about the most random things—her partner and their fascination with collectibles, the plan for your upcoming birthday, a new show that isn’t really all that new. Your feet find a clumsy rhythm, wheels clanking against hardwood. It’s more of a hobble than a skate. The walker is more useful than you want it to be.

Eventually you can see her getting antsy, craving the adrenaline that she associates with roller skates, as she starts skating ahead a bit, only to pivot and return to your side. Which you think definitely breaks skating rink etiquette, but no one says anything.

“Go, Stupid,” you push at her back once she returns for the fifth time. “Be free!”

She shakes her head with an ugly little laugh. “No, I don’t wanna leave you!”

But you know it’s a lie because her eye twitches. Well, not that it’s a lie—you believe that she doesn’t want to leave you, but you also believe that she wants to skate faster than a snails pace.

“Mina,” you whine with a pout, carefully stomping a wheeled foot. “I’ll be fine. I’m probably gonna stop in a bit, anyways.”

“Ugh,” Mina groans to the ceiling, chucking her head back like it pains her. Then, she turns to you with a cartoonishly quivering lip. “But—”

“Go.”

You push her again, and this time she listens, even if it is begrudging. Mina huffs over her shoulder.

“Fine. But, I’m only going a few laps and then I’m coming back,” she promises with a wag of her finger and a lift of her eyebrows. You stifle a laugh at her solemnity and nod. With a smile, she turns her back to you and doesn’t pivot when she deems the distance too far.

“And…she’s off,” you mutter. You become more aware of yourself and your…elderly posture once she leaves, but you try to not let it get to you. Even if there’s a kid half your age doing tricks in the middle of the rink, this is the first time you’ve actually enjoyed skating. This is the first time your stomach isn’t in knots over the concept of absolutely eating shit and then not being able to get back up in the rush. You suppose, in the grand scheme of things, you look like less of an idiot this way.

Emphasis on enjoyed.

“Is that a fuckin’ trainer?”

It’s Hot Stuff again—you know it by the way he smells, caramel and cologne—and his skates glide across the wooden floor like he’s moving through water. You glare. And, maybe you’re biased from one sided beef, the beef that builds every time he made you clutch hollow plastic a little harder. Now that he‘s closer and you’re actually looking at him, you can see that his hair is in fact a pale blond, with aggressively red eyes to boot.

He skates circles around you, literally, slow and steady and predatorial, as he awaits your response. Your eyes narrow and you puff your chest—you’ll be damned before letting a fucking man make you feel bad about yourself. (And, whether you cry about it later in the privacy of your own apartment is irrelevant. Irrelevant!)

“No, it’s your Mom,” which, isn’t a great argument, but hopefully his mom is like…relatively walker shaped, or something.

It doesn’t seem like it from his snort, and he crosses his arms across his chest, making his forearms flex in a way you definitely don’t care for.

“Good one, Dumbass.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, hoping to kill the conversation right then and there—but he doesn’t let it die. Why doesn’t he let it die?

It’s not that he has anything nice to say.

“Fuckin’, lock your knees—it hurts to watch ‘em wobble.”

“My knees are just fine,” you huff. Honestly, it sounds like something that would help—all the more reason for you not to do it. You will subject Hot Stuff to your wobbly knees out of pure fucking spite.

You see Mina with her back resting against the half-wall on the opposite side, giving you a sly smile while chattering on the phone. You wonder if she was on her way over here before Hot Stuff decided to harass you. You have the opportunity to plead for help with your eyes, but you don’t. She wiggles her eyebrows. You’re never gonna live this down.

But then, there’s a well-delivered (and soft) kick to the back of your knee, making it buckle, and you have to hoist yourself back up with very limited upper body strength while keeping a solid scowl on the man before you.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“To show that you suck,” and he huffs a laugh when your frown deepens. Placing a hand over his heart with a cocky twitch of his head, he says, “I’m tryna fuckin’ help, y’know.”

“Well. If this isn’t the shittiest help I ever received,” you mutter, locking your knees anyways. He seems to notice with a self-satisfied and lopsided grin.

“Now. Stop walkin’ and push,” he insists, and you listen, albeit resentfully. “And fuckin’ quit with the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

He forgoes his circles in favor of skating backwards, looking over his shoulder every now and then. You straighten your back, slightly, and know you pass Mina because you hear her snicker. You have half a mind to redirect your angry eyes to her.

Your shuffling issue, on the other hand, isn’t as easy of a fix—you’re still terrified of falling despite white-knuckling the walker, but you find that if you straighten your back and relax (as much as you can—which isn’t much), it’s a little easier. As you seemingly get the hang of it, his smile melts from something cocky to something proud, and you struggle understand why that look would be coming from a stranger.

“There you go, it’s like you don’t even need that fuck ass thing,” he says, and your eyes go for a loop again. Your head hurts, actually, from the amount that you’ve rolled them in the past ten minutes.

“Nope, still need it. You’re not that good of a teacher,” which is a lie, because technically, now you understand the principals of skating—even if you’re never going to use them. Because, you’re never coming back to the only skating rink in your small town, because, God forbid he shows up.

Instead of being put off by your sass and promptly leaving (aka, your intention), he just snorts.

“Anyone say you got a big fuckin’ mouth?”

“Anyone say you got a big fucking ego,” you quip with a roll of your neck, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Whether this man actually has an ego or not is beyond you—but, he is cocky, and that’s like…a synonym for stupid people.

With a shrug of his shoulders and a smile hidden poorly behind a frown, like you won this round of insults, “Got me there, Princess.”

And, well. If he asked for your landline after this, and you gave it to him, that’s your own fucking prerogative.

SPELLBOUND, SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES — HITOSHI SHINSŌ.

You met Hitoshi at his job at the record store, a few months ago.

It all started because he liked your taste in music, and you hated his. Now, you visit on his breaks—when you don’t have work yourself—to engage in the newfound tradition of sharing sounds. You two are huddled in a corner, he points to the boombox with a fork.

“See? ‘S whimsical as shit.”

At least, it’s cold today. He wears both a leather jacket and a sweater due to the faulty heater, thankfully putting those sinful arms away. Hitoshi’s not necessarily muscular, but he is squishy and well-built. And, you would like to take a bite. You viciously stuff that thought in a box, along with all the others, and move Hitoshi back into his corner, labeled as ‘friend.’ A super hot, grungy, only-person-you-can-bond-over-music-with friend. Even if your taste is questionable.

“That’s not whimsy, that’s just a guitar—”

“Twelve string guitar,” he interrupts with a wiggle of bushy eyebrows, but you keep going.

“—and some hooting and hollering.” You finish with a huff and cross your arms. In all honesty, the song isn’t that bad, just not something you would listen to in your free time. But, your relationship is built off the precedent that he plays what he likes, and you rip it to shreds. You know you’re dragging it, he knows you’re dragging it, but his jaw drops regardless.

“You will take that back about Siouxsie Sioux right now.”

“Sues-a-what,” you deadpan, and he watches you reach over his crossed legs to grab a fry from his food carton with a scoff.

“Siouxsie Sioux, one,” he says the name slower, like that helps at all, “and two—get your filthy fingers off my fries, you said you weren’t hungry.”

He smacks at your fingers, catching you on the way to get another french fry. With a pout, you just use your other hand instead, and he’s choking on air.

“You actually suck.”

You shrug, taking a bite. That’s why he got extra fries this time. “I think that one band you showed me the other week was a lot more…whimsical, as you put it. What was their name? The Strangers?”

“The Stranglers,” he corrects with a snort, and moves the carton between the two of you before resting back on his hands. “I can’t tell whether your memory is shit or amazing.”

“Right! Like your music taste!”

That earns you a shove in the head, but you take it in stride with a giggle.

“Awh c’mon! I get it, I’m lonely!”

You tilt your head back to see Hitoshi’s co-worker, Tetsutestu, bristling at the counter. You don’t know him that well, but he’s always here, even if he’s not working. So, you suppose you know him enough.

Your face goes hot, and Hitoshi grumbles under his breath, sitting up to fiddle with the portable stereo. “Next time, you’re coming to my place for this shit—I’m getting tired of his commentary.”

“Ooh,” you wiggle your eyebrows and shoulders, suppressing a giggle when he realizes what he just said and groans a warning ‘no.’ You don’t listen. “Your place, huh? Ready to take things to the next step?”

“No,” he repeats, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I forgot you’re just as bad.”

One more song, and it’s time for him to get back to work. You know because there’s a clock behind your head, and he keeps glancing over you to check it. Hitoshi walks you to the street, like always, the bell to front door dinging on your way out. Honestly—it’s colder inside than it is out here.

“Well,” you say with a clap, spinning on your heel to face him. You clear your voice to make it as deep as possible. “That was informative, as always.”

Lilac eyes narrow, and Hitoshi leans against the corner between the sunken door and window display. He looks stunning, all glass skin and eyebags and intermittent moles, but that’s neither here nor there.“Are you mocking me?”

It’s less of a question and more of an observation. Your back stiffens when you get caught in the act, like you didn’t expect to.

“…No?”

He looks at you like he knows, but grunts anyways, leather jacket squeaking as he attempts to cross his arms past the fabric. His shoulders bunch like he’s holding himself, easily passed off a defense from frigid temperatures. Now—you might not have known him long, but despite the nonchalance in his voice, his body language gives him away every time. He wants to say something.

“What?” you ask, mimicking his position by leaning your whole shoulder against the display. Hitoshi sighs.

“They’re gonna make me clean that, y’know,” he grunts with an upchuck of his head, but you shrug. He bites the inside of his cheek, and a lone freckle bends under the pressure.

“What?” You groan, because not only is he making you wait in the cold, but, “You’re stressing me out, Dude.”

Hitoshi blows his lips and rolls his eyes. The spare hairs in his eyebrows disappear when they crease, like whatever he’s about to say is going to be painful.

“I—uh—um,” he swallows, straightens. “Would you like to go on a date sometime?”

Oh. Oh.

Maybe that is both here and there.

“Um!” Now it’s time for you to stiffen, as your shoulder leaves the display that you’re suddenly very conscious of smudging. Whether your voice comes out too shrill or too breathless is beyond you. Probably some embarrassing combination of both.

“Oh, uh, it’s cool if you don’t wan—”

“No, I want!” You clear your throat, and try again. “No, um, a date—a date sounds good.”

Hitoshi snorts, shoulders sinking in relief. He nods, slow but enough times that you think they might be nerves. Which makes you feel a little better about the butterflies giving birth to more butterflies in your stomach.

“Cool, sick. Great. Uh, when are you free?”

You giggle and sway a bit, before catching yourself in the act and stomping a foot to solidify yourself. Lock in, Lady. “How’s Saturday?”

It’s Thursday.

He smiles—a small, soft, yet brilliant smile that you only get once every few moons, and you try to rearrange your brain into the shape it in hopes that you can keep it forever.

“Saturday sounds good.”

I THINK WE’RE ALONE NOW, TIFFANY — DENKI KAMINARI.

You get home with a huff.

You haven’t been back for a few years—not since college started, at least. Now, you’re a junior with a job and your own apartment, and figure you should probably come home before your parents lose their minds.

Home is aggressively the same, the point that it borders on surreal—it’s the kind of deja vu you know you’ve dreamed before, or walking past a celebrity you’ve only seen through a screen. The willow tree at the end of the cul-de-sac looks a little bigger, flanked by two two-story suburban houses just like your own, but it could’ve shrunken in your imagination. The living room, kitchen, your bedroom are all the same save for shifting dust. Your parents are painfully reliable, and you’re quickly missing the constant mutations of the city.

Your room is just how you left it—and you mean just, including the unmade bed and sweatshirt on the desk—frozen in time and waiting for your return in light dust. You don’t even bother with the lights, the window above your bed providing more than enough moonlight for you to function, as you shrug your jacket off and drop it on top the old sweatshirt.

Luckily, you like to travel in pajamas, especially for nights like this, when you take a red-eye flight and don’t have much energy to do anything but crawl into bed and sleep. Tomorrow, yes, you will be bothered by the fact that you slept in your plane funk, but that’s tomorrow—not tonight. Getting ready for bed was easy—you blindly unclasp your bra before taking it off under your oversized shirt, and step out of your sweatpants, and—viola. Ready for bed in under a minute.

You’re dropping face first into the mattress when you hear a crackle.

“Boo, Bitch!”

The sound is loud—too loud—and it has you jumping, nearly tumbling out of your twin sized bed. It takes a moment before you realize you know that crackle, and that voice.

You blindly palm under your bed, grimacing when your hand comes back successful, but covered in dust. Ew.

Blowing age away from the yellow walkie-talkie makes you cough. You prop your knees on your mattress to peer through the window, and into the matching one across the fence.

“No fucking way,” you chuckle into the walkie, crawling closer to get a better look out the window. A familiar moon lamp illuminates the somewhat parallel room in soft yellow hues, partially blocked by an unfamiliar body with a familiar electric grin. “Denki?”

“Oh, thank God, that was actually you,” his voice crackles through the equipment just like it used to. “I was worried you were your mom for a sec and, um, actually considered moving to Alaska.”

He heaves his bedroom window open (you wonder if it’s still broken) and shoves his upper body out and through, shoulders pressing into the sides, filling it out more since the last time you saw him. The streetlamp between your houses light the right side of his face.

“Still sticking your head out the window like a fucking dog, I see.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You watch his chest puff under his striped shirt as he says it. “Lift your window. Wanna see you.”

With a sigh and roll of your eyes, but listen. Your window shucks with a squeal, and you cough, waving dust from the air. When’s the last time anyone opened this?

“Happy, Loser?”

“Very,” he nods, smiling even wider. Then, his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to get a better look at you in the dark. “You look weird.”

“Ever hear about getting older?” You hate how easy all of this is to fall back into, like you’re ten again and he just moved in, like you haven’t been gone for the past two and a half years.

“You look weird too, fat ass bitch.”

Denki gawks at your audacity, before pointing at you across the lawn. “Uh-uh, just because I’m not smaller than you anymore does not make me fat, you take that back.”

You snort—honestly, unable to imagine a Denki that isn’t smaller than you. Even if he’s taking up the entire window frame. “Please. You wish.”

“Y’know what? No,” He shoos at you through the window before pulling his body back inside. His finger seems to stay on the trigger, though, and you can hear a thump and a tiny ‘ow’ before he says, “I’m coming over there. I did not spend all that time—“

There’s a thud.

“—in the gym—”

Another thud. Is he putting on his shoes?

“—for you to keep getting a way with that shit. One sec.”

The line goes dead.

You sigh and lean your chin against the windowsill so you can see the sidewalk in front of Denki’s house, so you don’t have to get up preemptively. He hasn’t changed one bit, save for age, but how much could age really change him? He’s like Peter Pan, and the concept of Denki Kaminari growing up doesn’t exist. Yes, he’s been in the gym, allegedly, but you also expect the allure of exercise to lose it’s shine for him after a few weeks.

So, who the hell is that stepping outside his house?

You’re being dramatic. You know it’s Denki from the silhouette and the way it shifts. He’s got a backpack slung tight over his shoulder as he takes the minuteless trip to your house. Except, the moment he passes the fence he hangs a right into your yard, heading straight for your bedroom. Which…makes sense. Since he’d moved in, your evenings used to consist of him harassing you over a walkie he built, and coming over to harass you in person. Except, no boy was allowed in the house past nine o’clock, so he’d sneak through your window.

Why he’s still insisting on it is beyond you.

A pebble flies through the window and nearly clips you in the face, pulling you back to reality.

“Dude!” You hiss through grit teeth, but Denki’s just standing under your window with a bright ass smile.

Then, he’s climbing the small awning that leads to your front porch. It looks more difficult than it was before, but you don’t know whether that’s because he’s out of practice, or too old for this. He digs his right foot into the missing brick in the wall, which you’re surprised hasn’t been fixed yet, and in swinging a solid hand onto your windowsill, wiggles with a lift until his body is halfway through.

“Help me up,” he strains, and you take his other hand and pull. It’s not as easy as it used to be—you have to brace both your feet flat on the wall and use all your body weight and then some. His body tumbles through in one swift movement, sending him tumbling over you and onto the floor with a loud thud.

“Shut up,” you hiss as all the teenage anxieties of sneaking someone in returning like they never left. Denki’s beaming, splayed across your floor, and chest heaving like he ran a marathon. “You’re gonna wake my parents up, Idiot. Why didn’t you just use the front door like a normal person?”

“For old times sake,” he giggles breathlessly, brushing down the front of his white t-shirt that now has a dirt smudge across the chest. You take him in after missing all these years—the baby fat in his cheeks is gone, along with his self-proclaimed twink status. He’s big enough that you probably can’t put him in a headlock anymore without getting put in one yourself, which leads to a whole host of complicating emotions.

Before you have the time to work through any of it, he stumbles to his feet only to come crashing into your chest. Your back tumbles into the mattress as he tugs you into a soul-crushing hug. A soul-crushing hug that has your arms pinned at your sides, so all you can really do to return the favor is twitch your wrists and pat at his elbows.

“Missed you,” he huffs into the fabric of your shirt, nuzzling his nose in your ribs. “Mm. You smell the same.”

“Get—” you manage to wriggle an arm free and start slapping at his head, “Get off of me.”

You kick him away and he lets you with a smile. You feel your face going hot in a way that it never did before, so you soothe yourself with a simple explanation—we’re not kids anymore.

Then, you’re suddenly very conscious about the fact that you don’t have pants on—maybe it’s the canary eyes that flicker between your legs before looking at you like nothing happened—and you tug at the bottom of the oversized shirt, before giving up and placing the comforter over your legs.

“Oh!” His eyes widen with a snap, “I forgot—I got somethin’ for ya.”

“Oh God,” you groan. Half the time, it’s something expired or with an open wire.

Digging into his bag, he pulls out two new walkies, still yellow, but less boxy than the last. He takes a seat beside you on the mattress, the bed bouncing under his little jump.

“Here ya go.”

He drops the electronic in your lap. It’s nothing like the last one—which, frankly, is five years old and falling apart. It’s smooth with no tape and welded tight, making you wonder what kind of electric chaos is happening on the inside.

“Dude, this is crazy…” you weigh it in your hands in awe. Then, Denki presses the button on his, and there’s a quiet blip before—

“Testing, Testing.”

You want to shove him in the shoulder for being a dork, but you’re too amazing at the lack of static that accompanies his voice. You glare at him.

“And yet, you refuse to take this shit seriously.”

Denki scoffs, resting his back against the wall.

“I like my English Major very much, thank you.”

You frown. “English? What happened to—“

“Pharmaceuticals?” He snorts, rolling his eyes with a shrug, and lifting a knee to rest his elbow on it. “Got bored.“

“Yeah, because you should be doing this shit,” you huff, waving the walkie in his face. A look that’s too melancholic for Denki Kaminari cross his face, but it’s gone just as fast as it arrived.

“‘Kay well, I didn’t come over for you to rip my major to shreds,” he snorts, turning his body to you with a new look of determination. “I came over here to prove a point.”

“Which is…” you frown, but he doesn’t give you much time to wonder. His hands find your wrists, and he pins you to the bed—head to the pillow and back to the mattress.

“Bigger than you,” he beams from above. You huff, and flex your arm in a feeble attempt to break free, but it doesn’t work. You try again, a little harder, with both arms this time. Nothing.

“Whatever.”

“C’mon, try,” he whines, and you are, but he doesn’t have to be such a pain about it. Eventually, you give up with a huff.

“Screw you.”

Denki lets out a satisfied hum, “I mean, if you ask nicely.”

Your breath hitches, and you know he knows by the way his smile slips further. Like he enjoys watching you writhe beneath him like the pervert he is. The hand pinned above your head curls into a fist.

“I’m going to hit you so hard once you let me go.”

“Try me,” he says without hesitation, eyebrows lifting as his face falls into something serious. “‘M not letting you leave again.”

SHE’S A BAD MAMA JAMA, CARL CARLTON — EIJIRŌ KIRISHIMA.

“What! No, no, no, no no no—c’mon!”

This is not how first dates are supposed to go. No, he’s supposed to woo you or something, with flowers and unmatched gaming skills and a plushie he won from the claw machine. The game is over, and you giggle as he collapses across the control panel in defeat. Eijirō’s not even that good at video games—he’s not Kat—but Street Fighter was one he considers himself pretty decent at. Considered, with the way you wiped the floor with him.

“No, don’t feel bad,” you say, rubbing his back in smooth circles. Eijirō just groans. “I’m in here like, every day.”

And yes, while that does make him feel a little better, the memory of absolute and utter defeat lives right beneath it. His best friend should not be able to whoop his ass like this. Not today.

“I thought I had that one,” he whines into grimy plastic, before lifting his head with a sigh. You’re still beaming, and put together the broken pieces of his heart along with it.

“We can try again?” You offer, but he seriously thinks you might just fake it and let him win. He groans again.

“I don’t wanna go again.”

“Okay, okay,” your hand returns to give him a comforting pat, before you’re standing off the stool with a sigh. You push hips forward to crack your back, and Eijirō can’t help but think—hips.

He takes a long (and loud) sip of his cherry slurpee to remind himself where he is. The arcade, with you, in public. Right. The brain freeze helps.

“What’s next?”

“Um…” Eijirō’s eyes scan the neon facility as he absentmindedly nibbles on a straw. It’s relatively new—so is the mall it sits in—and hasn’t been too tainted by sticky prepubescent hands and lazy litter just yet. “The Photo Booth? Apparently, they come in color, now.”

He wiggles his eyebrows like it’s something suggestive, and you snort. “C’mon, then.”

He guides you through machinery with his hand neatly tucked in yours. Which was something he had to work himself up for, if he’s being completely honest, and hopes that they aren’t as clammy as he feels. And, like—he’s wanted to kiss you all day, but he resists, because that’s the manly thing to do. No kisses on first dates.

It’s a tight fit—tight enough that he wonders if the booth is build for kids, to which he says, fuck that—and the seat is uncomfortably cold and cuts into his thighs. By the time you squeeze in, his shoulder is pressed flush to the wall, but he makes it work.

“Ready?”

And, he must sound nervous, because you just give him an endearing smile that was always reserved for him, always makes his chest tight in his favorite way. You lean forward, sliding a coin into the slot. The booth whirrs to life.

The first photo it takes surprises both of you—it makes you jump and puts spots in his eyes. Eijirō quickly prepares for the second one, placing two fingers behind your head until they look like bunny ears. Hopefully.

Click!

“Holy shit, that flash,” you huff a laugh, blinking through the blindness, and Eijirō can’t help but agree. You look up at him with a smile, and he returns it, tenfold.

Click!

“Yeah, I know. Let’s—just don’t look at it.”

He cradles your cheeks in both his hands, arm bent awkward where it presses against the wall. He doesn’t realize the position he’s got you in until he has it, and his eyes flicker to your lips.

Click!

He watches you lick your own, and he swallows a whimper, because that should be him.

Click!

Eijiro should let go. He should let go, and say sorry, and reposition himself for the next picture before you run out of film. But, he struggles and fails. He should say something. At least.

“You…”

Click!

“Um, would it be okay—like, hypothetically, if, um—”

You kiss him, instead.

Click!

And, Eijirō—Eijirō melts.

Because, he’s been wanting to do this for so long—too long, actually, since he met you at one of Denki’s parties six years ago—but the moment your lips pillow against his, he forgets exactly how long, as he braces a hand on the wall behind you and melts. You taste like artificial cherry and the love of his life, and Eijirō wants more, like, yesterday.

His other hand comes to cradle your waist as he runs his tongue along the seam of your lips. You let him in with a shudder, collapsing, and cupping his chin. Eijiro can’t breathe, doesn’t want to breathe, but you’re pulling away with a huff. He chases your lips anyway.

“C’mon Baby,” he whines, because you’ve opened his eyes—shown him that, it is, in fact, very gentlemanly to kiss your new girlfriend, and actually, he should be able to kiss you whenever you wants, wherever you want, because, that’s the manly thing to do, right? “One more.”

“Eiji,” you scold, and slap his shoulder, but it’s light and well-meaning, “No.”

“C’mon,” and, he knows he looks pathetic, but realizes he doesn’t really care. (He will—in about few hours, once it’s all over. He’ll scream, and kick his legs, and slam his head into his John Cena body pillow, and ask himself why, why did he do that.) All he cares for is your lips on his, and that is exactly where they aren’t right now. “The pictures won’t even be out for another few minutes.”

You roll your eyes, just like you did when you were just friends—but he likes it more, now. It makes him horny, now.

And, you cave for him, like you did when you were just friends. Eijirō melts into a puddle.

“Huh. They take multiple sets. That’s new.”

Eijiro pulls the photos strips from their loading dock. There are three strips. One that’s just him cheesing and you looking like an absolute model, one that‘s just you two staring at each other, and one where—

Oh. Oh, that’s—

Eijirō coughs, folds it in half, and pockets it before you can notice.

That one is his.

INTO THE GROOVE, MADONNA— HANTA SERO.

“Hanta, you asshole, stop moving.”

“I’m trying,” he wheezes through grit teeth. The projector switches from bright yellows and oranges to a blue, and his dick slides deliciously between your thighs. Your hand nearly slams into the trunk bed, muted by blankets and pillows.

A drive-in movie was such a bad idea.

In hindsight, you want to wack yourself for recommending this as a date—it’s still early into you and Hanta’s relationship, at the point where he can’t keep his hands off you, refuses to, actually, like you can up and disappear tomorrow. You hate to admit that you’re not much better, but—

“Hanta, I swear to God—”

“’M sorry Babe, lemme just—”

He adjusts behind you, you’re not exactly sure how, but you are sure that he shifts deeper, and it has you mewling. You try to remember how you got here in the first place.

‘C’mon, half these people are fucking, anyways—we can’t just kiss a little?’

Right.

“We are in public,” you hiss over your shoulder through the pleasure. “Chill out. We said no moving!”

Hanta sighs, settling his face into the crook of your neck. He, in fact, does not chill out.

“No, we said no thrusting,” he huffs, and you shiver, “No one said anything about grinding.”

His movements are slow and too innocuous to get caught, and you’re protected by the walls of the truck bed, but your mouth is not. His hand finds your hip to keep you pinned in place, pinned against the truck bed. You’ve decided that you hate this man.

And then, the idiot tries to distract you—like you don’t know what he’s doing, what he’s plotting.

“Wait, so I don’t get it,” he says, like his hips aren’t still moving in the exact way you told him not to. His head lifts from your neck to look at the screen, and you hate to say you miss it. “It’s Back to the Future because he’s going back to the future…that’s like…”

“That’s the point,” you whisper, but you’re too busy trying to figure out how to strangle this man but keep his dick after this is all over.

“Oh, no Dude, that’s your mom,” he drags a free hand over his face, the hand that isn’t holding your hips in place. You cross your arms with a huff, jostling your upper body, and you know Hanta notices when he slides a big hand up your side. “What’s wrong, Babe?”

“Don’t talk to me,” you glare into the grooves of the side panel. It’s petulant and you only partially mean it, and he knows that, if the chuckle into your shoulder is any indication.

“But you feel so good,” he pouts half-heartedly. His hand is clammy on your wrist as he guides your it between your legs. He nearly pulls all the way out, before sliding back in slow, making sure you can feel every inch of him, and dons that his new pace. His cock brushes past your guided hand and into your pussy, the rubber band of the condom catching beneath your fingers with every slow thrust. With his breath heavy and voice low in your ear, he says, “See?”

You hold onto that last string of sanity for dear life, but watch it fray by the second. With sniffle, you definitely do not shift your hips back a little bit, and if you do, it’s because you’re uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t know. My dick isn’t in me.”

Hanta moans, lifting his upper body propped on a forearm. “We gotta—someone’s gotta make, like, a mental link tech thing, I dunno. Y’gotta feel yourself, Babe. ’S fuckin’ incredible.”

You ignore him. You ignore him, because he doesn’t get the satisfaction of not being ignored!

It’s a struggle, but all he gets is a few quiet huffs in response. And, you think—success. You have succeeded in putting your stupid boyfriend in his place, your stupid boyfriend who you will be rescinding your sleepover offer from, because he doesn’t deserve it. No, you will drive back in silence, only breaking it to insist he drop you at yours instead of going straight to his. Karma’s a bitch.

“Babe,” he drags, and his chest shifts against your back to mumble in your ear, casual but heavy with something dark, something disbelieving, “Are you ignoring me?”

You clear your throat, but don’t give him more than that. You’ve been staring into the side panel so hard that you’re surprised they haven’t bore holes through the plastic yet. Hanta sighs, placing a chaste kiss to your neck, before a hand dives between your thighs to pinch your clit. The only reason you don’t yelp is because your lips are already pressed shut.

You reach around to slap him on the side, in the hips, and hiss, “I’m busy trying to figure out how I’m going to kill you after this!”

“But Babe,” Hanta whines (uselessly) while the hand between your thighs (less uselessly) starts rubbing steady circles into your clit. “You’re gonna be too fucked out to kill me.”

It comes out as a pout, like it’s oh so tragic that you won’t have the energy to follow through on your threat, and it’s annoying. It’s annoying, and puts bubbles in your blood, and melts your brain. The thread frays a little more.

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, because you can’t say ‘I’m going to kill you,’ that warning has already been debunked. “I hate you so much.”

“Cute,” Hanta coos before leaving a trail of kisses up your neck. “Embarrassed?”

“Or,” then, he traces those kisses with a lick of a flat tongue—you suppress a whine, “Gonna cum?”

You sniff, adjusting your hips. “No.”

The question is—could you get away with cumming on his cock without him noticing? Probably not, you have a bad habit of trying to push him out every time. This thought process quickly disintegrates into nothing—into something else, when you feel his hips still.

“W-Wait,” you whimper (not your best moment) and rock your hips back, but he holds them in place with sturdy hands. The space between you and the precipice—the one that he somehow, always easily gets you to—widens, and the threads reattach themselves, laced red with rage. “Hanta, what the fuck—”

“Cockwarming Babe, remember?” The hand on your hip taps you twice, and you want to bash your head into the truck bed. You can hear his smile in the way he talks. “Can’t be cumming in public, that’s just wrong.”

You’re going to strangle him. You’re going to get a mold of his dick in his sleep, and then strangle him.

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

[mamashima]

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—”

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

[mamashima]

bakugo is so tai lung coded IM SORRY—

[mamashima]

watch me give up on indenting in real time.

[mamashima]

rawr hi puma you're so amazing

don't you remember when you were my little secret.... when it was just me sliding into ur inbox.... and now tina's here 🙄 like my goodness find your own friend kamislop

dont forget your d1...

i kid i kid (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

i’m cryiiiingg—

you took my moot virginity 🙇🏽‍♀️🙇🏽‍♀️ you will forever have that title…

[mamashima]

still thinking about the caramel fic btw

oh my gawwwwwd staaaaahp

[kamislop]

a short blurb that came to mind after so many oomfs sent me this video on tiktok

no one talks about the scars of grief, especially at a time where weakness is disregarded, and, in your case, prohibited. so nobody comforted you when your childhood best friend touya disappeared, when you couldn’t count on sharing the pain with little princess fuyumi after her father, the king, ceased all communication with neighboring kingdoms.

you had to learn how to live without him longer than you’d known him, the shard of loss lodged in your heart never quite leaving, like a strategically light headache that doesn’t go away no matter what. that’s what growing up without touya had felt like.

even now, almost a decade later, you found yourself thinking that some things would’ve been far more entertaining, if only he’d been there by your side. not that much of a far-fetched thought, giving the royal blood coursing through your veins. the pin was almost unbearable when you thought about being king and queen. together.

that’s why you can’t find any entertainment in watching man after man perform their tricks. some of them were impressive, sure, but nothing brought that spark that should come with a jester. after your dad had the previous one executed, the court had to host yet another event to choose a new one. which meant wasting away a whole afternoon with men degrading themselves in hopes of mercy, and a salary that would be higher - even if not by much - than whatever they were earning before.

none of them piqued your interest, until you saw him. hair dark and dull, like he’d been coating them with coal, but those eyes. they were the color of the ocean you would see in the distance when you used to sneak up the highest tower of the castle. his color.

your touya.

┊┊a/n. is this one of the many other blurbs i write that won't go anywhere...likely. BUT UGH the POTENTIALLL (honorary mention: @imaginationmess) not beta read we die on sekoto peak

────⋆୨♡୧⋆────

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©kamislop 2026, do not copy, translate or upload my works without credit, do not use for AI training

[mamashima]

o h the vision…she is glorious…

[tokkushin]

✦ katsuki and his shy girl ⸝⸝ .ᐟ

katsuki with a shy girl who only lets him eat her out if he has a blanket over his head...

he tried to do it a couple times before, only to be met with your thighs clenched around his head and your face stuffed in a pillow — pulling him up by the collar of his shirt as you ignore the ache between your thighs and mutter that he "doesn't have to do that"

and katsuki knows what he can do, prides himself on knowing how to eat pussy, how to make his girl feel good — and he's determined to get to the bottom of this.

so, the next time he's kissing down the valley of your cleavage and feels his hair being tugged as he reaches for your waistband, he decides enough is enough.

"why won't you let me do this"

your hands loosen their grip in his hair, "katsuki—"

"please, you're killing me here" he mutters, bringing one of your hands towards his lips as he kisses your palm, "just wanna make you feel good"

it's clear he wasn't taking your excuses this time, especially when he can see your slick soaking the thin fabric of your panties when his mouth gets just a little too close.

so, you give him an ultimatum...

and katsuki's mouth is ruthless, as if he's been depraved from something so divine all his life — because he has. his head bobbing under the sheets as he listens to your stifled moans. he comes up for air between licks, forehead dewy and hair stuck to his face as he watches you with glossy eyes.

and katsuki never complains, cause if this is the only way to have you as loud as he wants you to be — he'll choose that damn blanket every time.

© — tokkushin : all rights reserved. all works belong to me .ᐟ pls do not repost/copy, or feed into ai.

a/n: do we fuck with the blurbs horndogs? i like writing them when i feel like i have an idea that doesn't need a whole fic 🤔 also then i can provide for your freakiness a little faster ykyk -> masterlist. | comments and reblogs greatly appreciated! 💋

taglist: @lonelyfooryouonly ⸝⸝ @kamislop ⸝⸝ @suganoms ⸝⸝ @girlluvkatsuki ⸝⸝ @starrsoasis ⸝⸝ @isaxbellevs | join the taglist?

[mamashima]

[mamashima]

You’re eating I fear. All your fics are soooo addictive. YOU GOT A NEW FAN 🥰🥰🥺🥺

awhhh thank youuuu! OMG ALSO I'VE BEEN MEANING TO REACH OUT TO YOU BC HAVE TO GROVEL AT YOUR FEET RQ, ONE MOMENT— 

you reblogged my sheriff!suguru fic and it literally went from 33 to >200 likes overnight. the power of the reblog is strong. thank you so much, holy shit???

[mamashima]

hi i know i commented like a million times but oh my god your caramel fic was life changing genuinely i loved it so much anyways lots of love can't wait to read more of your work!!! <3<3

THANK YOUUUU

reading your comments almost made me cry. ALMOST. (this fic means a lot to me and i spent a lot of time working on it, thank you for taking the time from your day to read a 16K fic that I WROTE, im baffled.)

[mamashima]

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—”

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.