OHHH ALSO how about frat gojo in the college band?? he might be a frat boy but he’s also a music nerd and reader is shoko’s friend who makes this insufferable frat boy nervous whenever they show up at his gigs
Satoru Gojo was the king of the frat house, a title he wore as comfortably as his oversized vintage hoodies and the expensive sunglasses that perpetually sat on his head. He was loud, obscenely confident, and had a smile that usually got him whatever he wanted. But the secret that most of the party-goers didn’t know was that Satoru was a massive, unapologetic music nerd.
When he wasn’t shotgunning drinks or leading a chant, he was the lead guitarist for a band that took up more of his brain space than his actual classes. He lived for the sweaty energy of a basement gig, the feedback of his amp, and the technical precision of a difficult riff.
Tonight, the air in the cramped, dimly lit venue was thick with the smell of cheap beer and anticipation. Satoru was on stage, tuning his Fender with a focused intensity that looked completely alien on his usually carefree face. He was in his element, joking with the drummer, until the heavy front door swung open.
Shoko walked in, looking as bored as ever, but it was the person trailing behind her that made Satoru’s fingers slip against the strings.
It was you.
You were Shoko’s closest friend, and for reasons Satoru couldn’t fathom, you were the only person on campus who seemed completely immune to his charm. While everyone else was tripping over themselves to get his attention, you usually just offered a dry remark about his ego and went back to your drink.
"You okay, Gojo? You just hit a flat note," the bassist muttered, leaning in.
"I'm fine," Satoru snapped, a little too quickly. He adjusted his glasses, feeling a sudden, annoying prickle of heat at the back of his neck.
He started the first set, trying to lean into his usual "Limitless" persona. He was jumping around, playing behind his head, and hamming it up for the front row. But every time he glanced toward the bar, he saw you. You weren’t cheering; you were just watching him with that calm, analytical expression that made him feel like he was under a microscope.
Between songs, as he wiped sweat from his forehead, he caught your eye. You raised your glass in a slow, mock-solemn salute and then whispered something into Shoko’s ear that made her let out a sharp bark of laughter.
Satoru’s heart did a weird, erratic thud against his ribs. He was a six-foot-three athlete with a genius-level IQ and a social standing that should have made him untouchable, yet here he was, getting genuinely rattled because a girl in a worn denim jacket thought his stage presence was "a bit much."
He leaned into the microphone, his voice cracking just the tiniest bit—an imperfection that absolutely horrified him. "This next one is... uh, it’s about someone who thinks they’re too cool for the scene."
He launched into a fast, technical solo, pouring every bit of his frustration and desperate need to impress you into the strings. He played flawlessly, his fingers moving with a speed that usually left the crowd breathless. When the song ended and the room erupted in cheers, he looked back at the bar.
You were smiling now, a real, small smile that actually reached your eyes. You nodded once, acknowledging the skill, before turning back to the conversation with Shoko.
Satoru stepped back from the mic, his chest heaving. He was the most popular guy on campus, but as he watched you from the stage, he realized he’d play a four-hour set in a literal basement every single night just to get that one nod of approval again. For a guy who had everything, he’d never felt more like a nervous freshman.
