Bepsi? Kaburagi grimaces inwardly as the stranger in front of him grabs two bottles of it in hand. Who even likes Bepsi nowadays?
"The fuck did you just say to me?"
Kaburagi freezes in place. "H-Huh?"
The corner of the stranger's mouth dips down as he fixes him with a glare that makes Kaburagi really regret stopping by this konbini. But hold on—his brow furrows. Beneath the other guy's super sketchy look and equally sketchy choice of beverage, there's something weirder going on. Something that makes his heart pound and his mouth go bone dry.
"Are..." his mind races. And then he steps back, raising an accusatory finger as the drink fridge watches on. "Are you a telepath or something?!"
"Telepath? What the hell are you talking about?!"
Kaburagi huffs. "I totally didn't say that out loud!"
"Ha? Obviously you did, dumbass. How else would I have heard ya?”
“That’s exactly what a telepath trying to hide it would say!” The orange-haired boy frowns, and the stranger looks more and more nonplussed by the second. It makes a memory spark in his head and his shoulders sag. “Although… I guess you’re probably right.”
(He had been extremely confident that he had kept his jeez, are you married or something? an inside thought, too. But then Imaizumi and Naruko had gone from bickering among themselves to chasing him down with red faces in the blink of an eye, and Kaburagi still didn’t know how tickling could be so vicious.)
“You’re one weird kid,” the stranger scoffs, rubbing the back of his head. But after sizing him up through his long lashes once more, he’s stalking back toward the cash register, muttering something about a fushigi-chan that Kaburagi doesn’t quite catch.
Just in case, though, the orange-haired boy tries his hardest not to think of anything as he reaches for a bottle of his beloved drink.
.
In line at the cashier, the stranger’s eyes catch on him again.
“Orangebeena?” He barks. “Are you serious?”
Kaburagi balks. “Hey!” Retort, retort— “Take that back, or—or God will strike you down!”
Looking at Ashikiba, now, Junta thinks that maybe what he’s been searching for was in the palm of his hand all along.
teshima junta & ashikiba takuto, teshima junta/aoyagi hajime. band AU, aged up characters, light angst, lots of feelings, ambiguous relationships. warnings for alcohol consumption. 1.4k words
read on ao3 !
The Tokyo skyline is particularly beautiful from up here, Junta thinks, not for the first time. As he leans forward on his elbows, the concrete cold of the parapet seeps through his old flannel—mixes with the adrenaline still lingering in his blood.
"It always feels nice to head up here after a show," he says. Ashikiba hums absentmindedly next to him, his gentle eyes hued by the distant city lights when Junta steals a glance up.
"It's a great view," the pianist affirms. His gaze is fixed on the faraway ripples of the bay, but it flickers down to him once, the corners of his lips curving up. "I get why you like it so much, Jun-chan."
Junta laughs. "Never kicked the habit of calling me that, did you?"
(Jun-chan, in the small practice room barely anyone ever used back at music school, the sound drifting over old stands that refused to stay upright and discarded snack wrappers that Ashikiba always picked up after with a frown. Jun-chan through a pained smile after a competition that ended, once again, with a medal draped around Ashikiba's neck as Junta watched from the audience. Jun-chan, it's okay. Jun-chan, you did really well. I'm sorry, Jun-chan, I didn't know—)
"Of course," Ashikiba beams. "It suits you."
"The fans will think we're kids." Junta props his chin up on the heel of his palm. His tone is ever facetious, but Ashikiba tilts his head in response.
"Well, we were, once. Weren't we?" He turns to him. The heart on his cheek nearly disappears into the shadows, but Junta has always been good with faces—his, most of all. It used to pain him. Now, he drinks it in. "And it was nice."
Junta brightens his answering grin just as Ashikiba's own flickers with guilt.
"Well, we definitely enjoyed ourselves." He turns back to the skyline, ignoring the strange something tugging at his chest. Say something, say something. Don't let this be ruined again. "Remember that competition in Kashiwa, when one of the judges didn't even write anything on my feedback form? You almost chased him down." Junta huffs out a laugh. "I'd never seen anything like that from anyone, much less you."
"It was rude of him," Ashikiba says, so plainly he has no choice but to believe it again, six years later. "Your performance was good. You deserved notes."
"You were always defending me." Junta looks down. Maybe if he blinks too hard, he'll see a shot glass swirling in his hand, a relic from nights spent at the bar when the memories turned too dark. "For a long time, I never understood why."
A full-fledged musical career had always seemed something of a pipe dream. Junta entered university telling himself he'd leave the life he'd known thus far behind. No more nights hissing at his tender knuckles after hitting a glissando wrong, or scribbling notes in the margins of his sheet music that would have come instinctively to a better musician, or bowing his head to critiques about the clarity of his left hand or his sloppy pedaling or everything else he fundamentally lacked in. He swore he would finally be happy that way. That he'd had enough.
Then, he met a quiet boy with string-calloused fingers and determined eyes who reminded him of everything he'd ever wanted. And the world opened up again.
"They helped you, didn't they?" Ashikiba smiles, achingly soft. Junta returns it, small but real.
"Yeah."
His eyes flutter closed. "Then, I'm grateful."
(Naruko and Imaizumi, forever bickering about who was the actual lead guitarist. Onoda, whose bright voice and starry eyes made the spotlight feel like a sun in its own right; Kaburagi, who took every opportunity to steal it like he'd be left behind if he didn't. And of course, Aoyagi, stoic, golden Aoyagi, who believed in him like it was breathing, in whom Junta saw Ashikiba and didn't. Their first rehearsal had been a mess for the history books, but it had felt right in a way Junta had not known for a very long time—in a way that he recognizes settled in his bones right now.)
"I think I only really understood it at first with you, though," Junta admits.
Ashikiba's eyes widen with surprise, and a new kind of serenity nestles itself deep within the cradle of Junta's ribs. Something like knowing after years of trudging through the fog. Like coming home from a long, long trip, and how you follow the motions of turning the key and setting your shoes aside despite having tucked them away for months on end; an ease whose endurance would have been terrifying if it hadn't been part of you for as long as you'd been yourself.
"You know, it's funny," He says, gazing at Ashikiba. "The first time I saw you, I felt like I'd known you my whole life."
"You had us worried for a sec running out like that, perm head!" Naruko grins brightly, slapping Junta on the back as the alcohol flush on his cheeks flares beneath the lamplight.
Imaizumi sighs. "He goes off somewhere after every other show. Probably to get away from you." The comment earns him a jab in the ribs. Junta shakes his head, stifling a laugh as he shrugs his coat off.
"I leave for ten minutes and you're already at each other's throats." He hooks the garment on a nearby hanger. "I hate to see what'd happen if I left for twenty."
Kaburagi waves a glass of orange soda from the beaten-up couch, the liquid sloshing at the rim and eliciting a visceral flinch from Danchiku next to him. "Ah, don't worry, Teshima. No way these guys have the balls to actually duke it out."
"Hey! Say that again, showoff—"
"Everyone's pretty lively, as you can see." Onoda smiles sheepishly, nursing his own drink. Honey lemon tea, Junta recalls as he makes his way over while the dynamic quartet engage in their own affairs. "Did you have a good break?"
Junta hums. His hands are still cold after bidding Ashikiba farewell at the venue staircase. You sure you don't want to step in for a moment? The group always has a great time after shows. Danchiku-kun and Kanzaki-san make wonderful drinks. Ashikiba had politely declined, airy but impossibly fond, ever-present smile widening at the offer.
"It was as good as it could get." Junta ruffles Onoda's hair. "Thanks for asking."
As the younger boy lapses into a diffident no, not at all, Junta's eyes fall on the half-empty glass of milk resting on the coffee table nearby, condensation beading on its side.
"Aoyagi's in the bathroom?" He guesses.
Onoda blinks, head swiveling toward the door labelled thusly. "Ah— um, yeah. He left just a few minutes ago."
As if on cue, the hinges creak open, revealing Aoyagi's familiar head, and every muscle in Junta's body relaxes. He's wringing his hands. This venue doesn't offer paper towels in the bathrooms, Junta recalls vaguely, and Aoyagi never liked using hand dryers. Too loud of a sound in too small of a space.
(Yes. He knows Aoyagi, down to his very marrow. He knew Ashikiba like that once, too. But Aoyagi's here. When his dark eyes meet his, the corners of his mouth lifting up unconsciously, Junta thinks he'll always be here. The thought makes his stubborn heart soar.)
"Your milk's getting cold, Aoyagi." Junta says with a grin, the edge of it blurred soft.
It's always cold, comes his silent reply. Still, Aoyagi doesn't refute it when Junta pats Onoda's shoulder and moves to join the sofa across the room: somewhat removed from the chaos, easily made for two. Their shoulders brush comfortably. He shakes his head no when Aoyagi asks wordlessly if he wants a drink of his own, and lets the room's sweet warmth envelop him again. It's not childhood, but it's close, and it's real.
And it's enough, Junta thinks, satisfied, the spectre of the city at nighttime and a heart on a cheek tucked neatly beside the image of now. It'll be enough.
