unsaid words

unstoppable force meets immovable object.

[ugkaito]

💃💃💃 here i go

MUN INFO.

name/alias: kira age: 18+ pronouns: she/her timezone: gmt+0 which means i should probably be asleep rn 🤡 discord: sentimental#5617 little trivia fact about you: i have a pineapple allergy </3

CHARACTER INFO.

character name: suzuki kaito  age: 25 years old  zodiac sign: scorpio group/band/position: producer (alias: howl) info links or quick points about your character: here is his bio and here are his stats, i promise i have a plan for a plots page but i have unfortunately fumbled the bag and will link it later

BACKGROUND.

tldr: classical music child prodigy turned genius music production student turned picky burnout producer that can’t really afford to be picky

the longer story: he’s the unfortunate child of two classical musicians (mum a super renowned violinist and dad a super renowned pianist) that had to learn how to play both instruments before he learned how to ride a bike (he still doesnt know how to ride a bike)

had a very pressured childhood, pretty much what u would expect of a child basically conceived for further ~fame~ and bragging rights

basically: piano lesson, eat, violin lesson, eat, study, study, eat, rinse, repeat for 15 years

got tired of it and in his rebellious teen years decided to secretly pick up the bass because it was so different/raw compared to what his entire life had been up to that point

ended up genuinely loving both the indie/rock scene and playing the bass which was a clown move considering his parents realised there was something up with him and when his father found out about the bass, he got a) a hell of a beating and b) a broken bass

guess which one he was more upset about

anyways he was humbled by that incident and just kept his head down, studied, performed piano and violin duets with his parents until he realised how furious he actually was at the lack of control over his life and applied to yonsei for music production without telling his dad, then dipped as soon as graduation was over

phase two: he reaches korea and flies through university as the top student of his class (thanks mum for the cash&support, no thanks to dad who’s stuck in a hospital after a stroke) before dropping out abruptly before third year because the pressure was getting to him and it brought back bad memories

interned with an indie producer for a while before setting up his own half-assed studio that eventually gained steam for both his talent, and his proclivity for producing hits for bands nobody’s ever heard of even though there’s always huge companies emailing him 

he likes your shoes? bet, here’s a single

his producer name is howl (yes from howl’s moving castle) purely because his friend from university told him he looked like him when he had long hair 

the vibe: think messy hair pulled back into a ponytail, sleep schedule of 6am to 5pm (quick tip: don't call him during those hours), ramen for breakfast and steak for dinner, blunt and rude because that’s his coping mechanism but he also thinks he’s funny, hates putting in effort for anything other than his music, yes he’s wearing odd socks and yes his nail polish is peeling off, yadda yadda

in all seriousness, i am super excited to be here and i promise i will be working on my plots page soon ... but until i get my shit together id love to brainstorm etc so please do feel free to like this and i’ll hit u up or u can hit me up first whatever works best :^)

[ugkaito]

bobae​.

[...]

when he doesn’t quite move quickly enough, a foot extends, nudging at the edge of his office chair to turn it slightly, until he’s forced to abandon the many knobs and dials and sliders arrayed in front of him in order to face her. “you need to pay attention to me, i’m distraught,” she scolds him, the barest hint of a smile at the edge of her lips reading of two things: one, that she knows she’s being absurd and two, that she expects compliance regardless. “play me what you’re working on? or better yet, give me a song so i don’t have to write another one. i’ve used up my allotment of creative energy for the year, i suppose.” 

she somehow manages to defy all laws of physics when she charges into his studio at a frightening speed, the door rattling on its hinges (shit, he should probably replace it soon since once more unannounced visit from her would leave the studio wide open) with all the energy and power of someone that definitely doesn’t have a frame as small as hers. the slump of her body over the couch and complaints about the throes of capitalism aren’t anything he’s not used to from bobby, so he settles for the good old-fashioned cold shoulder, as though the piece he’s been working on for the past month is more interesting than whatever she has to say.

read: it isn’t.

not that he can ignore her for too long, anyways — nobody can ignore bobby when she wants to be heard, and he’s no exception despite the years of experience, finding his chair spinning towards her ever so slightly as he’s forced to peel his eyes from the glaring computer screen. his mouth quirks up at the half-grin she sends him, and his hand reaches out to lightly shove her foot off his chair. “the great bobby in front of me, her creativity shattered after years writing about love and candy. it’s almost enough to make anybody weep.”

kaito grins fully now, knowing she’s known him long enough to understand his poking-at-her-open-wound comes from a place of (attempted) comfort. “unfortunately for you, i’m considering throwing myself to the entertainment companies myself if it means i can stop staring at this goddamn track for once.” he leans forwards to unplug his headphones from the computer, clicking play and turning the volume of his half-finished disaster down so it’s background noise against whatever else they have to complain about. he’d play it louder — if he thought it was worth playing for bobby. 

“maybe a swap is what we need. how about you taint this with your electropop sound. and i’ll cry rivers of blood on your track? if we label it a collab, god knows the press would have a field day.” he’s only half-joking, but his inability to provide decent advice means step one has always been to provide humour. if it doesn’t work, he doesn’t really have a step two.

[ugkaito]

sungbin.

[...]

“you were right about nickel rounds on the track, by the way.” a reference to the last time they’d talked shop, and not something he’s planning to delve into. “thanks for your help on that.”

there are few things more peaceful than a studio at shit o’clock in the morning, but the niche burger place ten minutes away from his place that’s (for some reason he doesn’t know and should probably find out) perpetually vacant takes the cake. 

the worker at the counter never asks any questions when kaito orders a meal that’s definitely too heavy for midnight, nor do they shoot him a judgemental look that reads wow, you eat like shit. so he slides into a booth at the back of the place, hood up and pen tapping against the sheets sprawled out in front of him looking very much the part of a stressed out student, had he not dropped out half a decade ago.

see, there’s working on music late at night in your studio because there’s a company on your ass about an album you drunkenly promised them six months ago, and then there’s working on music late at night in a dodgy restaurant because you think a change of scenery is going to incite some sort of hidden ingenuity inside you that a four walled studio was stifling. it never works, but kaito likes to humour himself and act like that’s the only reason he frequents the burger place so often.

he hears the door open and shut and it’s almost embarrassing how kaito doesn’t have to glance up to know who’s ordering at the counter. regular, but irregular — if there was a word that perfectly fit between those two, it would be them. he hums under his breath as the other slides onto the plastic bench, and he gathers his sheets up into a neat pile (as neat as scrawled papers can get, anyways).

kaito wonders briefly whether he should tell sungbin that he looks washed out and tired, especially under the blinding lights, but decides quickly that he probably doesn’t look much better. he settles for a, “good evening to you too.”

“uh, i said coffee. but i saw her pull out some fanta in the kitchen, so i’m not too hopeful,” he answers with some semblance of uncertainty, nudging the cup forwards so it’s closer to sungbin and with his mouth curved upwards slightly. "why? do you want some?”

his nose crinkles at the sight of a fry dipped in the ice cream, and he reaches across the table just so he can swipe a fry and pop it in his mouth before the other has time to complain. “if you’re thankful, let me hear it next time.” there’s a tone to his words; not quite serious but not quite teasing either, and he pushes his hood down. “unless it’s something top secret, of course — you plannin’ on running away and making it as a solo artist?”

[ugkaito]

mun​.

[...]

“Hey. It’s been a while. I’ve been thinking, lately, about calling you.”

He hasn’t, but Kaito has no way of prying open his skull and figuring that out. As far as Mun remembers, Kaito had always seemed like a fan of wishful thinking. 

theoretically, drinking like his body was a furnace in the early hours of the morning seemed like a better idea than it turns out to be when he finds himself stuck in the middle of a crowd, feeling like his stomach is about to turn over at the slightest inconvenience. undoubtedly, it’s the mixture of lack of sleep, too much alcohol and compressed spaces with hot bodies that’s the source of the queasiness — yet something in kaito tells him it’s better to throw up here than at his dishevelled studio, piles of unfinished work spilling over every inch.

(he tells himself it’s fine, that everyone gets what-the-fuck-am-i-doing-with-my-music burnout, that everyone gets stuck in that unpleasant little rut for months. maybe if he swings down another shot like it’s water, he’ll really start to believe that it’s normal for a producer to forget how to fucking produce.)

it’s delicate fingers on his bicep that jerks him out of his trance, and his eyes flicker over to the owner of the hand to catch sight of a familiar smile — and now kaito actually does feel like he’s going to be sick. the blunt nails digging into his arm ever so slightly might as well be claws, knowing what’s hidden behind the coy smile that seems to occupy mun’s mouth whenever he wants something. funny thing is, kaito knows that whatever mun wants, he always gets.

he supposes it would’ve been impossible to avoid the other for the rest of his life (though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been making a somewhat decent effort), like one would usually do with someone associated with embarrassing memories that he wanted to rinse his mind clean of, of times when he was younger, more naive and stupid. 

there’s no point in shaking mun’s hand off when he’s gripping like he won’t let go so kaito scoffs, not that it’ll be heard over the booming bass and loud chatter. he bites the words that are on the tip of his tongue just so they won’t spill over into an ugly drunken mess, but fails anyways. 

“wow, you look like shit.” he deadpans, ignoring the other’s almost benign tone. kaito’s words are an obvious lie — a childish remark spat out in a lazy, half-assed attempt to hurt the other. (it won’t work. he wouldn’t be surprised if mun was made out of steel that’s impenetrable to anything other than compliments and wanted connections.) “have you tired yourself out trying to climb up the popularity charts or something?”

[ugkaito]

💃💃💃 here i go

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[ugkaito]

bokyung​.

[...]

bokyung is sniped mid-air by a widowmaker just shy from restarting the overtime timer, as if he needed more evidence that tonight is not his night. he’s already on a pathetic losing streak since he got home, thank you very much. he gets it. he leans back against his seat, hands running through his hair, as DEFEAT fades into his computer screen.

his phone rings.

“hello?” 

“oh, wow, you actually picked up.”

he does a rather poor job of masquerading the surprise in his voice, coming too naturally to someone who’s had his calls declined more often than accepted. kaito probably should’ve gotten the message by now, as if the words “why do you keep doing this?” isn’t enough to give him a painful reality check, but it’s never been like him to understand things at face value.

it hasn’t even been too long since he’s seen bokyung, but clearly it’s been long enough that a simple “hello” is enough for kaito to swallow the lump in his throat ━ one that isn’t the result of the empty bottles or stray papers in front of him. 

“i was working on something someone sent me.” his breathing is too erratic for someone awake at one in the morning, no doubt the consequences of cross-fading a mere hour or so ago in his studio like his sleep-deprived mind can handle it. he knows bokyung’s going to lecture him for it, but before he can ━ “and like, i don’t know. it reminded me of that one time, d’you remember?”

he laughs a little breathlessly, grit underneath his feet as he bends down to draw a shape onto the concrete. “that one song. you made it at my apartment the week before finals when you swapped water for coffee. their song sounded just like yours.” it didn’t, but bokyung doesn’t need to know. “so i went on a walk and ran into ahjumma from that ddeokbokki restaurant near your place.”

his words are erratic, a million miles a second like he’s scared bokyung’s going to interrupt him or end the call or do anything except let him talk. he doesn’t think he could handle that. “she asked me where you were, if you were coming later or not.” he snorts.

“what a bitch, am i right? talk about rubbing it in.”

[ugkaito]

hyeju.

[...]

“In fact, you know what all of it’s always been about you Kaito.” Her voice is low, tone shifted to something softer, almost sweet enough to betray the vitriol that stains the rest of her tone. “Every song, every action, every thought I’ve ever had in my pretty little head has been about Suzuki Kaito, because how could I focus on anything other than you? You deluded piece of shit.”

confrontation is stifling, particularly when the confronter is hyeju and he’s spent most of his life running away from his past as if moving countries and tacking on a pretty little alias would be enough to scrub the remnants of japan off his body. everything’s too much ━ she’s too much, abrasive like she’s trying to dig her nails into his open wounds and pour salt into them.

maybe it’s what he deserves. maybe it’s some sort of sick joke, some opportunity for repentance, to be faced with her out of everyone he could have met in korea, to have to look her in the eyes, spitting out poison like they’ve always done.

“pot calling the kettle black,” he says flatly, and there’s no attempt to conceal the fatigue that’s latched onto his words. she’s right, (she always seems to be when she’s cussing him out), but he’ll be damned if he’s the only one scathed. “how can someone who blindly followed their mother into another country that they knew absolutely nothing about talk about only ever knowing what their parents told them?”

you don’t know shit she says, there’s some truth in that; kaito isn’t stupid, he’s not about to go on some inner monologue about how he misses the times he had with tsubasa-not-hyeju and how different hyeju-not-tsubasa is, acting like they’re the same person when there’s a decade of indifference and unanswered questions between the two of them. but when he catches sight of the tear prickling the corners of her eyes, the shake of her voice as she tears into him, tsubasa and hyeju blur into one and he finds the wind knocked out of him, speechless for the first time.

“i━” he can’t really get a word in, not when hyeju’s fury is in full swing and there’s not a moment of silence. “tsubasa—”

and she’s too close to him now, faces inches away from each other like they’re fucking fifteen and not pushing twenty six. the difference is that back then he would’ve grinned at her and she would’ve grinned back, pushing away his face and muttering minikui at him before laughing at his protests as he tried to pull her back into his arms. 

instead they’re left picking up the pieces of what used to be, as though the memories weren’t torment enough already.

(he wonders where it goes from here. he wonders if he can collapse onto his knees and claw at his chest to get rid of that ugly feeling of guilt, choking out an apology as if it’ll make everything okay again when he should’ve done that ten years ago, long before he had knocked on her door and been told she had flown 600 miles away. but apologies don’t fix anything.)

“listen to yourself.” his laugh is breathless, just as empty as hers had been, and he feels his nails dig into the palms of his hand hard enough to draw blood. “just listen, you’re so fucking bitter. it’s all you’ve ever been. and don’t you dare call me deluded when you seriously thought you could waltz in here, tell me that you dropped me as your producer for merely business reasons and i’d accept that it was the truth.”

he exhales, inhales sharply and turns around, pressing the heels of his hands onto his eyes because he wants to burn out the image of her, tear-streaked, furious, from his mind. 

“i’m tired, tsubasa.” like it isn’t his fault. “i’m so fucking tired of this.” 

[ugkaito]

wonjae​.

[...]

he doesn’t want any advice. he never does, but it’s a small price to pay for a distraction. maybe he’ll be bored into forgetting what’s been said so far.

immediately after he says the words, he feels the weight of discomfort in his chest. if anything, it had been a slip of a tongue or a thought that should’ve been kept to himself — but it’s too late, and kaito feels the unpleasant shift in atmosphere, the slight twinge of tension before his gaze flickers for a brief second, almost nervously, over to the other. 

at least wonjae, for all it’s worth, doesn’t seem to notice the way that kaito has suddenly paused, fingers lingering on the box that holds the gloves. perhaps it’s because they’ve danced around this topic ever since they decided to complicate whatever it is they had, but something about “emotions” in the same sentence as “wonjae” leaves him feeling unsettled.

not that he’s completely devoid of them and so he stands back up, furrowing his eyebrows at wonjae. “you know i didn’t mean it like that,” he says. the other has a humoured tone, his mouth turned up amusedly, yet kaito wonders why he feels so uneasy. 

he likes to think he knows wonjae enough to know when he’s pretending to be okay. clearly, he absolutely has no idea.

“i’m not embarrassed of you, wonjae, why would i be?” it’s the truth, because embarrassment isn’t the word. he’s thought about it before, what exactly he feels when he thinks about everyone knowing — is it relief that they can stop sneaking around? or relief that others might leave wonjae alone, knowing that kaito has asserted some sort of claim on him? (because he's far from having done that.)

“it’ll just be difficult.” he can feel the other’s eyes scanning him as he fumbles. “uh, you know. might make it weird for people who know and want to work with us. or whatever.”

he’s grateful for the shift in topic, necessary before he thinks himself into oblivion and says something else he’ll regret, but he can’t help the way he snorts. “what, the great ji wonjae wants advice from me? never thought i’d see the day.” he’s returning to the table with the box of gloves, hairband on his wrist to tie up his hair before he gets to the grit of the dying process as he pulls out a chair across the other. “i did some work on the demo you brought over last time. oh, also, you sounded kinda flat on one of the songs at that gig.” 

and as though it helps — “you looked hot though. don’t think anyone else noticed.”

[catpacks-deactivated20240223]

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[ugkaito]

haera​.

[...]

she strolls lazily over the bed where he’s perched in, throwing the blanket off kaito’s frame without second thought. “good morning, sweetie!” she chirps in a very uncharacteristic haera manner, a caricature of a loving girlfriend as a playful smile lights up her face. “unless you want a good morning kiss from me, you better get the fuck up,” she continues. her demeanour changes over to a serious one. “i’m not fucking joking, kaito, it’s freedom day. you know what it means!”

weirdly enough, they just fit — somewhere between the late nights spent in the studio, haera grumbling “that actually sounds like shit” (to which he responds “yeah, your band would know all about sounding shit wouldn’t they?”) and between early mornings where he would wake up and find her splayed across his bed — they find a rhythm. he’s never been one for structure, preferring the uncertainty of the next day over the regularity others find comfort in; but across the years, min haera somehow manages to dig herself a permanent place in his life.

(he can’t really find it within him to complain. maybe he prefers regularity more than he had thought.)

either way she’s only gotten considerably worse across the years, pushing her boundaries excessively if the way she invites herself into his house without warning isn’t enough evidence of the way that his apartment is now basically owned by the pair of them. and kaito, ever willing to humour her actions, has to pretend like he doesn’t like it when both of them know that he’d probably be passed out at the back of some dodgy club in itaewon after getting robbed had it not been for her (almost) daily intrusions. his fake reluctance doesn’t matter anyways — it’s not like it’s going to stop her.

“fuck you, i am so unpredictable,” he hisses, doing an embarrassingly poor job of hiding the fact that he still doesn’t know how she managed to get a hold of his spare keys. never mind the fact that she knows him like the palm of her hand — and makes a dedicated effort to remind him that she does, too — he still thinks that she watches him every time he hides the key. “it’s not my fault you barely ever spend any time at your own home and probably spend hours rustling around for the spare key when i’m at work anyways.”

he stares at her, at that coquettish smile that he knows turns sharp whenever she doesn’t get her way, wondering briefly how he had been lucky unlucky enough to land himself amongst the ranks of her when he’s interrupted by the cold air biting against his skin the second she rips his blanket off. in all truthfulness, he doesn’t know whether he winces at the sudden cold, her shrill voice or her sickening words more, but she gets what she wants. (like she always does.) “you’re paying rent the next time you come over,” he complains, sluggishly shuffling off the bed. “i can’t believe you’re acting like the idea of kissing me grosses me out more than you.”

it’s freedom day. the words sink in a beat too late and he almost stumbles (read: he absolutely stumbles) on his way to the closet, fixing her with a look that’s equal parts horrified and delighted. “you’re kidding me, right? i swear the last freedom day was last week.” not that he remembers anything about the last time except waking up with plastic rings on their fingers in busan, anyways. “how the hell do you have so much energy knowing what’s going to happen tonight?”

[ugkaito]

wonjae.

[...] 

“but since you asked, it’s purple. purple doesn’t stain too bad, but on the off-chance that it does, maybe i’ll help clean up this time. i’d hate for you to be left with another reason to complain as soon as you see me again.”

“maybe i’ll say no next time then.” there’s not really any genuine malice in his tone, but kaito likes to humour himself and act like he has the capability to say no to one of wonjae’s late night texts. (never mind the fact that he doubts he’ll ever turn the other down — but it’s all part of the push and pull game that they have, and it’d be far too boring to give in so easily.) “hey, it’s not my fault it turned out patchy last time, i told you not to move.”

not that the green looked bad on him anyways; nothing ever does. kaito bites his tongue before he can say so and give the other an unnecessary ego boost, instead settling for scoffing as he stretches across the counter to open the pizza box. his eyes flicker across the other as they navigate through his apartment with an air of confidence that seems to come far too naturally to them, and kaito wonders briefly how many times this has happened now. how many more times it’s going to happen, because neither of them have the guts to do anything other than bite each other’s heads off and wake up in the morning like nothing’s happened.

he rolls his eyes, grimacing slightly as he peers at the royal purple hair dye, grasped in wonjae’s hand like it’s not going to give them hell for the next few hours. “it’ll look nice on you,” is all he says, because that’s the truth and he’d be foolish to say any less. kaito scoffs. “you like it when i complain anyways, i don’t see what the fuss is.” the corners of his mouth curve up at that, unabashedly fixing the other with an unreadable look.

a pause, then — “y’know we’re being too careless,” he murmurs, almost to himself if it weren’t for the way his gaze remains on wonjae. another moment of silence, before he pushes himself off the counter to go rustle around for the gloves. “your shirt, the one you wore to your last gig. you left it over last time.”

they’re not a secret. it’s just that nobody knows, either.

“one of my friends almost recognised it.”

[ugkaito]

silvertongue ft. @ughaera​

most days start like this.

the sun streams in even through his curtains and if that isn’t telling about the fact that it’s late afternoon, the abundance of youthful chatter outside his open window definitely is. it’s almost (keyword: almost) loud enough for him to get out of bed, but he opts out at the last second in exchange for another half an hour or so dazing off like he doesn’t have a pile of unfinished tracks on his desk and a painfully important decision to make.

kaito really doesn’t know. maybe he’ll just flip a coin.

with popularity comes a tiresome number of emails in his inbox from various entertainment companies that he’ll never reply to anyways, and half of him supposes this is the life that he should’ve expected when he dropped out. the other half never seems to be satisfied regardless of how many albums he produces (though he supposes meeting some artists had been a blessing in disguise) and it’s this insatiable feeling that leaves him reeling.

it’s halfway through his shit-should-i-actually-flip-a-coin dilemma that he hears a shuffle somewhere in the corner of his room that definitely isn’t coming from him. his instant reaction is to tense, eyebrows drawing in together at the unexpected sound as he wonders belatedly whether someone really is trying to rob him.

most days do not start like this.

there’s an excruciating moment of quietness and he peeks out from above his duvet, gaze flickering to the source of the sound. even with his eyes struggling to adjust to the newfound light, he spots the figure inching closer and immediately relaxes, muscles losing their tension. he shuffles, sitting up in bed and fixing the figure with a look that he hopes represents the irritation he feels.

“what the fuck.” he deadpans, the unbecoming taste of cotton on his tongue as he peers at the intruder through bleary eyes. he doesn’t know why she bothered hiding when kaito would be able to spot her from a mile away anyways, all bouncy lilac hair tumbling over her shoulders and the same old smug grin on her mouth. he squints at her from the safety of his bed just because min haera is absolutely insane. “i even moved the spare key to a different place this time, how the fuck did you get in?” 

[ugkaito]

hyeju​.

[...]

“The fuck makes you think you’re the deciding factor on whether or not my music ends up good anyways?” The words come out faster before her brain can tell her to stop and consider what she’s saying “What some bullshit critic says you’re so good? A couple of fucking industry execs want to suck your dick and make you out to be fucking Mozart so you’ll make something hip and trendy for their little soulless idol group so they can make a shit ton of money and then throw you away when something else trendy comes along? That’s what makes you so great? How fucking pathetic.”

It’s only then she stops. Only then she realizes she’s been yelling it’s a little too mean and a step too far. But the words are already out there and she can’t (won’t) take them back.

“You couldn’t just let me do this the nice way, could you?”

it’s ugly, the way they talk to each other ━ a cruel, rough-edged caricature of what they used to say, what they used to be, what they could’ve been. there’s an oncoming headache that’s pinching away at the back of his temple and he tells himself that he should’ve expected her outburst, but he still has the audacity to glance at her with a faint look of surprise when she laughs.

that’s right, he thinks, this is exactly what it was like last time too.

and she keeps going, words tumbling out like a waterfall and it’s only then kaito realises (no, he’s lying to himself ━ he had realised long before this. when they had met again, when he had seen the look of disdain in her eyes at the mere sight of him) that she’s been waiting for this. hyeju’s anger comes slowly at first, passive, but he feels the weight of her acrimonious words before she does,. 

he thinks the more he looks at her the more splitting his headache is going to get, and he squeezes his eyes shut, a hand rubbing over one until he sees stars behind his eyelid. kaito can hear her stand up now, her bitterness spilling over into waves of fury like the tsubasa he knows and he’s at the receiving end of it all.

he should stay quiet, but something won’t let him. a beat of silence passes after she’s done, and he boils beneath the surface before━

“fuck you right back, tsubasa,” he says calmly though he’s anything but, and it’s almost childish. almost childish that they’re at his studio, unable to act like fucking adults and pouring salt into each other’s wounds in japanese because god knows they couldn’t get their words out properly in korean. “i can’t believe you’re telling me what people love to see as if you’ve ever been a people-pleaser.”

“you’re hilarious, you know. you bark at everyone around you because you’re just dying to be heard, blinded by the fact that you want to always hear how matsuoka tsubasa is never wrong. hell, you made a new fucking band because you’re always right, didn’t you?” never mind the fact that he feels sick hearing her words resonate in his mind like an endless chord, he’s too far in to back out. “don’t tell me that you really think you’re hot shit just because formerly known as cuss in your songs and refuse to cater to the mainstream wave when all you’re doing is fuelling your own pride. give it a year or two, maybe you’re going to quit this band and start another one, then rinse and repeat just because you just love leaving people behind, don’t you?”

(he doesn’t mean it. he doesn’t.)

“so no, i couldn’t have let you just do it the nice way.” he laughs but it’s hollow, scratching his throat to force out. “because you want everything to fit your little story, don’t you, tsubasa? your story where i’m the only one who’s in the wrong here, the only one who’s ever wrong, some little industry sell-out that isn’t capable of producing shit for your band. and if you want me to play the fucking villain so badly, then who am i to prove you wrong?”

[ugkaito]

wonjae​.

[...]

it comes out again once he’s standing outside a door that kaito should be behind, just to make sure he hadn’t gotten a message back telling him not to come. he notices it had taken seven minutes, actually ― more time to anticipate his arrival, less reason to be surprised. he holds both his phone and the plastic bag from the beauty store in his hand as he knocks rapidly on the door, amplified by the bottle of royal purple hair dye inside the bag thumping against the door with each knock. just to be extra attention-grabbing, he shouts, “hey! i’m here!” 

if he’s being honest, replying after a week is short for wonjae. 

not that it alleviates the twinge of irritation he feels when his phone buzzes on his bed, and he unlocks it to see the awaited text. just like clockwork. he always does this — always at some ungodly hour at night when nobody in their right mind would be awake, and he supposes wonjae’s lucky that kaito isn’t really in his right mind ever. he presses his mouth into a thin line.

» you’re asking that like you’d fuck off if i said no.

the joke is, kaito knows it’s a shit idea to get involved with someone who dyes their hair more than they pick up calls. the punchline is the fact that he still finds himself hauling ass to the door when he hears the flurry of knocks and ear splitting shout that follows, like he doesn’t know what’s waiting for him at the other side of the apartment. as soon as he opens the door, he catches sight of the bag and pizza box and bites the inside of his cheek at the familiar routine.

“if that’s some neon colour like the one from last time, i’m not doing it.” he says flatly, throwing wonjae a sharp look as he lets him in. he’s only half joking, but the other half hasn’t forgotten the ache in his arm after scrubbing his bathroom for hours afterwards. “d’you know how hard that shit was to get rid of last time?”

he doesn’t know why he bothers with the empty threats, like wonjae would take them seriously when he knows kaito is the last person who would say no. but still, it gives him some semblance of control, however much of a façade it is, especially when he thinks he’d go insane if he thinks about how little authority he really has over the other.

he ignores the way his breath hitches when he finally looks at the other for the first time, glancing pointedly at the bag. “what colour is it this time?” 

[ugkaito]

hyeju​.

[...]

“It’s just the best choice for the band, you know?” She’s got half a mind to tell him that this is his own fault, him being fired by some shitty band that only aims to bruise his ego but that idiot of a girl Tsubasa tells her to be kind, because he is still Kaito. She sucks her teeth and chooses her next words carefully. “We just feel like he can help us get the better end product. You get it right?”

“it’s fine, i get it.”

he does get it — and that’s what really fucking sucks. watching hyeju fumble around for words like she’s trying to be cordial for the sake of being cordial, eyes shifting to everywhere other than him is something that leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. it’s made worse when he can’t help but think about how the tsubasa he knew would be entirely different, wasting no time to tell him to, well, fuck off.

ironically, he thinks he would prefer those two words over any of the million she’s going to stammer out in an ultimately fruitless attempt to not hurt his feelings.

he tells himself that it would’ve been stupid if reconciliation (or even friendliness, if he’s being honest) came this easily anyways ━ the awkwardness, the leaving-the-room-when-the-other-comes-in and everything in between is something that can’t be fixed with a few hours and an album. even if the two of them bite their tongues around the other formerly known as members.

“i get that you’re making a huge mistake, probably because you’re too much of a coward to admit that you just don’t want to work with me.” subtlety is overrated, and he can’t hold back the bite in his tone even if he had told himself he wouldn’t let the hurt show. moon jinhyuk is good ━ shit, he’s more than good, more than capable of producing some five star ep for the band, and the fact that he’s so good really does get on kaito’s nerves.

because it’s such an excellent excuse.

there’s something burning in the way he looks at hyeju, not angry but not quite disappointed. the clock ticks on the wall behind him, and he briefly thinks back to the days with a bass guitar wedged between the pair, the sun peeking over the horizon, school blazers discarded on the concrete behind them as he plucked a string on the rooftop of some old karaoke house.

now, all he can see is the way she’s biting the inside of her cheek, expressionless like she doesn’t even know him. (maybe she doesn’t anymore.)

“if you want to throw away your ep, that’s fine by me.” it’s not. “but what ━ you feel like he can help you get the better end product? don’t make me laugh, tsubasa.”

[wildthvvghts]

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