Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“No way are we calling our band ‘Soul Resonance’! That sounds like it was named after you. That’s so lame!”

“How is naming it after me ‘lame’, man? Besides, it sounds like a badass superhero move or some shit. It’s cool as hell.”

“Says you! How about something like… Blackstar Big Wave?”

That made Soul laugh. He slapped his knee and threw back his head. “Dude, are you serious? ‘Blackstar Big Wave’? You’re not even trying.” He leaned back into his beanbag chair and watched Blackstar pace back and forth in their recording studio, which was really just a nice way to say ‘the basement that Soul and his older brother Wes shared’. Soul had lived exclusively with his brother since he was fourteen and Wes was seventeen. Their parents were pieces of garbage who put way too much pressure on their sons. Their grandma, at least to Blackstar’s knowledge, was the only member of the family that Soul and Wes could ever really get along with, but they hardly ever saw her. When things got especially bad and Soul wanted to make sure that Wes had enough money to feed himself, Soul would camp out at Maka’s place for a while, even if her dad wasn’t very fond of him. He definitely couldn’t come to Blackstar’s house for solitude. He had come from a family of gang leaders and mobsters who had forced a stick-and-poke tattoo on him by the time he was six years old. Luckily, he was able to live alone now, but it was a tiny one-room apartment in a rough neighborhood. At the very least, it has made it so Whitestar hadn’t been able to find him yet. He had an intricate web of followers and family, but Blackstar held out hope that they had given up on finding a lost cause. Not that it was very possible at the moment, with his father and most of his close family either being behind bars or resting beneath the ground with a tombstone over their heads. If it hadn't been for Sid paying him off and on for odd-end jobs, it would have been very possible that Blackstar ended up on the streets. He shook his head and focused back to his friend, tossing his hands up in the air with a groan.

“Alright, alright! How about…” He snapped his fingers and turned to Soul with a grin that made the other quirk his brow. “I got it! We’ll call ourselves ‘Soulstar’. Pretty sick, right?”

“As if.” Maka chimed in as she came down the stairs with a handful of drinks in her arms. Tsubaki followed close behind, and Blackstar could hear her laugh behind her hand. Maka stomped down the stairs in her black ankle boots and tossed a soda can directly at Soul’s head. He caught it expertly in midair as if this was a routine that he was exceedingly familiar with, and Blackstar assumed that it probably was. She tossed Blackstar a bottle of water and, despite his best efforts, he was unable to catch it nearly as smoothly as Soul had caught his drink and it floundered in his hands before eventually falling into his palms. Tsubaki laughed louder as she descended the stairs behind Maka.

“Hey, bad throw,” Blackstar tried to recover and untwisted the cap to his water with a little too much force. Soul snorted from his spot in the beanbag and rolled his eyes beneath the lid of his drink.

“More like a bad catch.”

Blackstar screwed the lid back on his water and promptly chucked it at Soul’s side, watching as the other was unable to catch it in time. Soul sputtered and knocked the drink away from himself after completely missing the catch. With a groan, he crossed his arms and did what looked like his best at ignoring the group chuckling at his dismay.

“Oh?” Blackstar taunted with a smug look that has been wiped from his face a time or two before. “What was that about a ‘bad catch’?”

“You’re such a dick.” Soul responded, but the laughter had begun to sneak its way into his own chest, judging by the gentle lilt to his words. “You’re just lucky a cool guy like me doesn't take it too personally.” At Blackstar’s outstretched hand, Soul rolled his eyes and begrudgingly tossed the water bottle back to him. “You know, we still haven’t decided on a name yet, smart guy. What kind of band gets their music figured out before their name?”

Blackstar shrugged non-committedly and took a large gulp from his water before plopping down on the ground in front of his drum set. Maka took a spot on the loveseat next to Tsubaki and sipped her own water while the other girl blew on her tea. The loveseat was a torn up hand-me-down when Soul first acquired it, and it hasn’t gotten any prettier since. But, it served its purpose as it was pushed up against the wall and away from all of their equipment. Soul had spent more than one night going over their music, tapping away at his keyboard, plucking at his guitar, and finally crashing after twenty-two hours of nothing but caffeine and practice, practice, practice. It felt like it was never enough practice.

Maka hummed and stretched her legs out in front of her. Blackstar caught Soul trying not to stare and physically restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Well,” she started with a smile, “I actually have an idea for a name that I think would sound neat to us all, if I could be so bold.”

“It can’t be any worse than whatever Blackstar had to offer.”

“Hey!”

Maka ignored the two boys and smiled, sharing a look with Tsubaki, who was probably already aware of her idea and had approved of it. The blonde stretched her arms over her head and let the silence stretch on before her. Blackstar knew how much he enjoyed an audience, but having been friends with Maka since they were children told him everything that he needed to know about how much she enjoyed the spotlight every now and again, too. Her smile lifted the corners of her eyes up, making her look almost mischievous, until she finally said, “Death Scythe.”

“Death Scythe? For real?” Soul asked, but Blackstar had a pretty good suspicion that his friend’s indignation towards the name was more about arguing playfully with Maka than it was about the actual title. Maka scoffed good naturedly and put a hand against her chest.

“Don’t act like it isn’t cool just because you didn’t think of it first! That’s just bad sportsmanship.”

“I liked the idea,” Tsubaki spoke up, which earned a smile from Blackstar. Despite Soul being his best friend and him having known Maka since they were still learning how to walk, he and Tsubaki had a partnership that he didn’t expect when he had first met her. He liked seeing her come out of her shell more and more and flourish among friends. She had once told him during a particularly rough night for both of them that she was named after a flower with no fragrance, and that maybe that was all she would ever be; this quiet but pretty flower that makes little marks on people’s lives while it grows, but its fall is still tragic yet soft. Blackstar quickly shut that line of thinking down. He hoped the conversation was as cathartic for her as it had been for him.

“I thought it sounded great for all of us, you know? I was excited when Maka brought it up.”

“It’s okay, Tsubaki. You don’t have to be sickeningly sweet to Maka, we all know that name sucks.” At Soul’s remark, he received a throw pillow (one of the ones on the loveseat that had at least half of its stuffing left) to the side of his head. He let it bounce off of him and chuckled as it fell to his feet.

“Shut up and just admit it’s a good name,” Maka picked up the other throw pillow, which looked a lot less lively than the previous, on the off chance that Soul had anything else smart to say and needed another reminder to be quiet. Before the two lovebirds could do any more bickering, Blackstar cleared his throat at an obnoxiously loud volume and offered his take.

“Meh, it’s alright for a temp name. At least, until we can figure out a way to include ‘star’ in it somewhere. ‘Cause if you’re gonna have Blackstar in the band, you know we’re gonna be big stars, baby!”

“Well, that is the plan, idiot,” Soul responded affectionately and Blackstar shot him a cheeky grin in reply. Maka clapped her hands together and looked incredibly pleased with herself.

“Great! So, we’re all in agreement, then? We like the name ‘Death Scythe’?”

“I definitely do!” Tsubaki rubbed her hands together excitedly. Blackstar was happy to see her excited and could feel all of the missing puzzle pieces clicking into place. With his friends here and the gears turning to create the band that he has always wanted to be part of, he was beginning to have actual hope for the future that he hadn’t had in a long time. His chest constricted in a way that almost felt comfortable instead of the usual pangs that would come from hearing his father's name being passed back and forth in a dark alley, or the rock in his stomach that sits upon listening to the sirens outside his thin apartment window and being unsure whether he should hope they are for a member of his family or completely unrelated. What he was feeling then was different, but not unwanted. He wished he could bottle up the feeling of being around the people who were his real family, sitting on the floor, surrounded by vinyl records on the wall and the sound of laughter and playful banter. He was safe and comfortable and didn’t have to worry about fear or pain or ridiculously high and nearly impossible expectations.

Unfortunately, Blackstar wasn’t able to pause this moment or take a piece of his heart out and put it in a jar to preserve forever. But, he figured, perhaps that was the true beauty of these short but meaningful lived experiences. That was what truly made the moment so wonderful because while it wasn’t the first moment that he felt like this and it certainly won’t be the last, it was still beautiful in that it wasn’t forever. These moments were like snapshots of better times that made all of the bad shit that he had experienced before worthwhile. And, he reasoned, moments like this would probably make all of the bad shit in the future worth it, too.

“Death Scythe?” Blackstar looked up from the floor and flashed the group another smile. “I like it. Now, what the hell are we waiting for? Get your asses up and let’s practice!”

Chapter Text

Blackstar was awoken by the sound of sirens blaring outside his window. Normally, he was able to drown them out easily, especially if he had fallen asleep listening to music screaming from his laptop, or whatever autoplay had for him after the previous night's video. That night had been different, however. Maybe it was the mixture of the rain pounding against the windowpane, the way it sounded hitting the thin roof above his head that threatened to leak at any moment, or the fact that he had struggled falling asleep in the first place, but the incessant whirring of the police below broke him from whatever light slumber he had eventually managed to slip into.

“Even big stars need their beauty sleep,” he groaned to no one in particular. If he couldn’t go back to sleep relatively soon, and depending on the time, he considered texting Soul. That man might have a sleep schedule that could rival Blackstar’s own for its shitty nature. The blue-haired drummer yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before reaching over and fumbling for his phone. It was plugged into the wall and laying haphazardly somewhere on his pullout bed that, when daybreak came, would fold back into the only couch in his apartment. He yawned and finally found the phone tucked halfway beneath his pillow. He yanked it off of its cord and blinked drearily against the bright screen. The glowing white numbers in front of him read 5:28am. Considering he hadn’t dozed off until a little after 3am, he couldn’t count his total time asleep as a win. Damn, if he didn’t start getting more than three to four hours a night, he’d become a zombie at practice.

Still, he felt that it was late enough to at least try and text Soul and see what his situation was. Maybe they could head out and grab a bite to eat for breakfast- Blackstar didn’t have a car (or very much money), and while Soul also tended to be broke, at least he had the wheels. Blackstar clicked on Soul’s icon and wrote up a quick text.

hy mn u up. ?

Yikes, that was a difficult message to read, even for someone who was used to Blackstar’s shorthand and spelling mistakes. He tried again, hopefully clearer this time.

i maen hey man r u up

That one was a little better, if not by much. He couldn’t bring himself to care about his texts any more than that and resigned to let his phone flop back down until he would maybe hear it buzz back from Soul’s response. It hadn’t been five minutes yet as Blackstar continued to listen to the passing sirens rushing past his apartment that his phone vibrated. He plucked it back up and was surprised to see that it wasn’t Soul, though once his sleep deprived brain caught up to him, he realized that his surprise was unfounded.

It was a message from Sid, which he tended to get when the cops were out. 

On morning run n saw cops headed your way you good? You in trouble? Do you need me?

Blackstar scrubbed up and down his face and tried not to take Sid’s texts personally. What, did Sid think that just because he was tossed into juvie a mere two times as a teenager, that suddenly every cop that drives within a ten mile radius was going to take him into the slammer? Okay, well, he thought absently, nineteen was still a teenager. But he had changed a lot from fourteen to nineteen- at least, so he believed. His phone buzzing once again broke him out of his revere. 

Answer me quick or im coming over an I mean it 

Blackstar bit back another groan as he started typing a response.

chil man im almst alseep ya im gud i hear em 2

They wake u up?

Blackstar rolled his eyes. He was living on his own and had been since he was seventeen years old. Why did Sid think he had to keep babying him? He could take care of himself. He always had.

m fine

You don’t sound fine. Coming over

“Goddammit.” That made Blackstar sit up in bed, considerably more awake than he had been a few moments prior.

srsly dont tehy woke me up but m gud goin bck 2 sleep

Just as he was wishing for Sid to take a damn hint, he received another response.

Ok but i’ll be up, love u little man lemme or Naigus kno if you need us yea?

ok thx

Finally, Blackstar could breathe a sigh of relief. That was one crisis averted today and the sun hadn’t even come up yet. As he threw off his covers, he couldn’t help but think about what an absolute madman Sid was. Who the hell wakes up at 5am to go for a morning jog? He probably had papers or some shit to grade afterwards. Blackstar knew that Sid tended to go to bed early to wake up for the classes that he taught, and on days he didn’t teach he was either in the gym, working out at home, or preparing Naigus breakfast in bed. Blackstar was never really sure what love looked like until he saw those two together. Before them, he wasn’t even entirely sure if it was real. He didn’t remember much about his family, but the bits and pieces that came to him tended to be unpleasant or unwelcome at best.

He stood and stretched backwards and then from side to side in the hopes of getting the ache out of his back. A pullout couch-bed wasn’t the most comfortable piece of furniture in the world to sleep on, but it served a multipurpose function and when one was barely scraping by, that made all the difference. As Blackstar was quickly becoming impatient with Soul’s lack of a response, he meandered over to his small “kitchen”, which was only separated from his living room / bedroom by a thin wooden bar that stuck out of the wall. It had a couple of tiles on the floor as opposed to the carpet that covered most of the apartment in an attempt to make it feel more like a kitchen, and it contained the necessities, even if it was cramped. He had a fridge, oven, stove, sink, some sparse cabinets here and there, a microwave built into the wall (“fancy” is what he had said upon first seeing it, though that was probably more to convince the landlord how badly he needed this place), and he even had a coffee maker that Soul had given him when Wes bought themselves a new one. 

Sometimes, Blackstar wondered if the only reason Soul had even given it to Blackstar at all is so he’d have coffee to drink whenever he came to Blackstar’s place, since the other wasn’t really into caffeine or energy drinks. He drank more tea or water than anything, but still appreciated the gesture nonetheless. The next big ticket item for his kitchen was a blender so he could make protein shakes and take them to the gym. Just the idea got him excited to workout again. As he squeezed into the tight area, he opened the fridge, even if he knew he wouldn’t see a lot of options inside. He had some eggs and milk, though, which was exactly the kind of breakfast he could use on an early morning like this one. It was a good thing, too, because Soul eventually answered, and based on his response, Blackstar doubted that he felt very inclined to go on an early food run. 

what do u want man

Blackstar chuckled to himself as he balanced his phone in one hand and the carton of eggs in the other. He placed the eggs down on the counter and fished out the milk while he typed up a reply. 

seein if u were up

He went to work frying up some eggs and waited for Soul’s answer. Blackstar learned not to take Soul’s grumpy nature too seriously in the mornings. For a guy who claimed to be the coolest and chillest around, the guitar player certainly had his fair share of nerves and a short fuse when provoked. While Blackstar’s anger tended to be explosive, like a raw stick of dynamite that could become lethal if given the opportunity, Soul felt more like an intricately crafted bomb that had been locked away in a safe somewhere. It was protected by steel walls and it had a way to be diffused if handled carefully, but it was still just as dangerous. When Blackstar was angry, he wanted to scream and kick and punch at any solid object he could get his hands on. It scared him and reminded him in flashes that made his head hurt of his father, his cousins, his family. For Soul, it came out in the sharpness of his words or the way his fingers tremble as he lights a blunt. They both had their own shit to deal with, Blackstar knew, but Soul was his absolute ride or die. He was the first person Blackstar had called when he was thrown in juvenile detention the first time, with a black eye and ugly tears making steady streams down his cheeks. Soul had picked up, asked him what the hell he had gotten himself into, and then promptly grabbed Sid and Wes to come and pick him up. 

The memory was almost bittersweet, in a way. Blackstar never wanted to go back to a place like that, both in the sense of his behavior and behind bars, but he could recall vividly the relief that flushed over him upon seeing Soul and Sid walk into the police station. Soul had taken no time in rushing over to him and they had quickly and easily embraced. They had been close ever since first meeting, and while they tended to get on each other's nerves like any good friends do, they also never hesitated to remind one another of what they meant to each other. Blackstar tried in vain not to remember the broken expression on Sid’s face, twinged with anger, as he discussed Blackstar’s situation at length with the officer. 

The popping of his eggs in the frying pan pulled Blackstar back to the present, much to his appreciation. His phone had alerted him of a few more text messages, so he assessed that his eggs were finished, turned off the stove, and picked the phone back up from the counter. 

yeah i’m up. barely. why are you awake? you didnt even leave practice until like 12

hey dude you good? 

ya srry makin food
wnna do smthin 2day?

The response was immediate. 

fuck yeah dude actually i wanted to bring something up

Blackstar’s heart dropped to his stomach in worry before Soul sent another text, effectively remedying his earlier anxiety. 

found this kinda underground place last nite thats looking for bands AND theyr paying for any they tak eon. how sweet would that be????

Eggs completely forgotten on his plate, Blackstar focused all the attention he could muster on his phone. There was an itch beginning in his fingers and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, threatening to break through and creep up into his throat. He didn’t even try to fight the grin that had broken out across his cheeks. 

if ur joking ur srsly goin 2 hell

nah dude thats why im still up. felt wired yesterday after fidning it out. apparently one of makas friends mentioned it to her and i did some diggin seems legit

“Yes!” Blackstar hollered and pumped his fist in the air. Finally, they had an opportunity to get their music out there. They had only had a couple of gigs in the past and it had all been small, borderline skeezy bars that they weren’t even allowed to drink at since none of them were yet twenty-one. That didn’t stop Soul and Blackstar from sneaking drinks from the bartender between sets to take with them after their performance. Maka took no interest while Tsubaki sipped on beer, but the rest had been left for Soul and Blackstar to get properly hammered on, to which they did in earnest. While the gigs still paid them (it wasn’t much, but $25 each was better than doing it for nothing) and it could technically count as exposure, the patrons hadn’t really given them any of their attention, and the band had yet to be invited back to play again. 

Blackstar clamped a hand over his mouth and stood completely still. The walls were fairly thin and he had neighbors that would happily report him for “obnoxious behavior” given the chance. He couldn’t be too loud, which had been a definite challenge for him, but he managed by drumming to his heart's content in Soul’s basement and screaming to the music that blared in his ears through headphones whenever he hit the gym. When he felt that the coast was clear and there wouldn’t be any angry tenants banging on his door and demanding that he be quiet, he went back to staring at his phone and trying to contain his rising excitement. 

There were too many things he could say in response, but he ended up deciding on sht up that wuld be amzing 4 us!!!!!!!! Almost as soon as he had sent it, Soul sent his own back. The quickness of the response made Blackstar laugh. He could practically feel the other’s own excited energy seeping through every word he typed back. 

I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW ill get deets from maka when she wakes up but im fuckin psyched
im too stoked to go back to sleep u wanna come over?

Blackstar started writing his text back before he even completely finished reading Soul’s. 

b there in 30

In hindsight, he probably could have just asked Soul to come and pick him up, but he enjoyed the feeling of jogging in the rain. That didn’t stop him from bringing a dry change of clothes in his backpack, but the rain had calmed considerably and Blackstar felt that there was something kind of sappy and beautiful about existing in the world as it woke up for a new day. Hanging around Tsubaki had made him sentimental about that kind of thing. She had really introduced the idea of appreciating nature and the universe and everything that it held in its grand, finite grasp. Before getting close with her, he felt like he had to be the star that burned the brightest and hung the highest in the sky, casting everything else in its shadow. Tsubaki was the one that brought him back down to Earth and reminded him that sometimes when we try to burn too bright, we end up singeing the people we care about, even if it wasn’t our intention. He still planned to be the best and brightest, but he felt that he didn’t need to burn others in order to claim his role in the galaxy anymore. A real star makes their mark by proving their worth in the cosmos, not by exploding those who get too close.

After brushing his teeth, making sure he didn’t stink, eating his eggs, and throwing on some clothes while packing some extra into a backpack, Blackstar made his trek over to Soul and Wes’s place. It wasn’t a very big house, but it had a sick basement for them to practice in, and Soul and Wes had their own bedrooms. Blackstar still wasn’t sure how they had managed to initially afford the place, even with its unfinished floors and broken windows, but after meeting the old woman who was their landlord, Blackstar thought it might have something to do with her being sweet on the boys and their plight. And while she wasn’t necessarily friends with the Evans’ grandmother, she was familiar, and that more than likely secured their ownership of the home. That didn’t stop her from forgetting to call the plumber when they needed it or failing to renovate the place, regardless of the severity, but Blackstar imagined that the two would probably be happy sleeping in a cardboard box if it meant that they never had to see their parents again. He could relate.

He didn’t even bother knocking as he strode in, letting the screen door slam behind him while closing the front door. Soul always unlocked it when he knew Blackstar was coming over, and he happily took advantage of the fact. Soul looked up from the video game that he was playing on the TV in the living room and hissed at him. “Dude, be quiet,” he scolded. “Wes is still asleep. He already pretty much only tolerates you.”

“Don’t remind me.” Blackstar threw himself over the side of the couch to sit beside his friend. Soul grimaced as Blackstar splashed him with his wet clothes. 

“Man, you could’ve at least dried off before giving me a shower.”

“Mornin’ to you too, handsome.” 

That made Soul chuckle. He set the controller on the coffee table in front of him and leaned back against the couch cushion, arms crossed over his chest. He was still in his pajamas, which consisted of a graphic tee for a band that he and Blackstar had snuck in to see live at one point, and a pair of sweatpants. At least Blackstar had the decency to get changed, even if it was just in a pair of ripped blue jeans and a black hoodie with some logo that he didn’t recognize. It had been a present from Maka, or maybe Tsubaki. He couldn’t really remember. 

“Any updates on this gig of ours yet?” Blackstar asked, and then immediately added, “hey, you should grab me a drink.”

“You should grab your own drink,” Soul retorted. “And it isn’t our gig yet, man. We probably have to sign up or audition or some shit, I don’t know. Maka hasn’t gotten back with me yet, but she has class at 8am, so she should be waking up soon.” Blackstar hummed and made himself comfortable on Soul’s couch, kicking off his shoes and making no move to get up to grab himself something to drink. He thought about stealing Soul’s coffee mug from the table just to irritate him, but didn’t think the concoction that he had made would be very pleasing to him. Plus, he didn’t need the other’s backwash this early in the morning. After glancing back at his phone, he saw that the time was now a little after 6:50am. He tucked his phone back in his pocket and met Soul’s eyes. He was probably trying hard not to show it, but Blackstar knew that Maka being in school stressed him out. After graduating from high school, Maka had enrolled to be a commuter at a local college that was nearly impossible to get into, and Tsubaki had begun taking online classes. Soul and Blackstar were content to focus on the band and see where the wind took them. He knew how proud Soul had been of Maka, but having your crush of several years going to school while you hung out at home and wrote music was an understandable cause of stress. Anyone with eyes that worked decently could see that she felt the same about him, but Soul was as dense as he was stubborn.

“How’d you say she found out about this place again?” Blackstar kicked his feet up on the coffee table and instinctively glanced at the door to Wes’s bedroom to make sure that he wouldn’t wake up and immediately start the morning by chastising him. While the older Evans brother felt sympathy for Blackstar and could even empathize with some of what he had gone through, it was not a secret to the younger that Wes remained hesitant about Blackstar, and didn’t think that he was a very good influence on Soul. Blackstar told himself that he didn’t care and that his reputation, or his family’s reputation, wouldn’t get in his head, but he was lying if he said it still didn’t sting, as if Wes’s opinion of him was a thorn that had been in his skin for so long that it felt impossible to remove now. He settled his attention back on Soul and awaited his response.

Soul sighed low in the back of his throat and grabbed his “cool guy” coffee mug, leaving Blackstar’s crossed ankles on his coffee table to remain. “She said a friend from school told her about it.” He sipped at what remained of his coffee, but Blackstar noticed the twitch in his cheek as he spoke. He decided not to remark on it and allowed Soul to stew in his thoughts regarding Maka and her college friends. “Sorry, man,” the guitarist said after a while, “I can grab you a drink if you still want one.”

“Of course I still want one! Don’t be a lazy ass, Soul. Get me some orange juice, I know you’ve got the good shit. None of that pulp crap.” 

“You did not just call a category of orange juice “the good shit”. I am seriously never smoking with you again.” Despite his griping, Soul reluctantly stood and headed into the kitchen. It was attached to the living room by a doorway and housed all the necessary items, plus a small wooden table and a couple of mismatched chairs seated around it. Blackstar couldn’t remember the last time he or Soul had actually made use of that table. The bedrooms were down the hall, with one bathroom on the end, and another bathroom attached to the laundry room that faced adjacent to the front door. 

Blackstar listened to Soul dig around in his fridge and pour him some orange juice. He heard some additional rustling and when Soul came back into the living room, he tossed Blackstar a granola fruit bar and sat down with his own. Blackstar caught it and cheekily accepted the drink as well, taking no time in gulping down half of it and then tearing into the granola bar like a wild animal. Soul rolled his eyes but didn’t add any witty input he might have had. 

He clicked his phone awake and started typing, which signaled to Blackstar that Maka was probably awake by now and giving Soul updates. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring at Soul as he typed away. He chewed obnoxiously around the fruit paste inside the soft granola and took another generous sip from his juice, waiting for Soul to put his phone down and deliver any news. After a few minutes, Soul chewed on his lower lip in contemplation and looked over at Blackstar. He was just finishing up his breakfast treat and wading up the wrapper to toss at Soul’s head of white hair. Soul scrunched up his face but couldn’t hide the grin at catching Blackstar in the act. It wasn’t the first time (and probably wouldn’t be the last) where Blackstar had been caught doing something he shouldn’t be, so he went ahead with his plan and tossed the ball of plastic at Soul’s face. He swatted it away easily, but Blackstar figured, hey, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.

“Maka just texted me,” he said as if Blackstar would assume anything else. “She said two of her classes got canceled today. I figured I’d go pick her up when she’s finished with her first and we could all hang. You wanna come with?” 

A good wingman might have let Soul pick up the girl he likes by himself and then regroup later, but Blackstar had nothing else going on and the idea of heading to the gym or back to his apartment made his chest deflate. He flashed a smile and finished the last of his orange juice with a final gulp. 

“And miss seeing all those preppy college nerds? As if. When are we goin’?”

The drive to the college was a little under thirty minutes, and Blackstar enjoyed most of what Soul played from the aux in his car, so it was an easy ride. He tried to sneak a couple of his favorites in, but each time Soul smacked his hand away from his phone with a resounding, “Don’t touch. My car, my tunes.” Blackstar huffed and only complained maybe twelve times before decidedly giving up and switching from staring out the window, to his phone, to back in front of him to scream any lyrics that he knew. As they drove, Blackstar had a suspicion that they were approaching Maka’s college when the hedges started looking more trim, the sidewalks swept, and the atmosphere began to positively reek with the smell of overpriced coffee and textbooks. Black iron fencing started sprouting up across the yards and Blackstar wondered what century this college was built in. It looked like some Victorian-gothic wayward home, with tall gray and tan buildings, pillars that could graze the sky, and marble walkway strips along the freshly cut ground. 

There was distinctly odd, or perhaps eerie, about the school that Blackstar couldn’t quite place. It all felt too perfect, almost, without any loose beer cans littering the grass or signs hanging down, and every building had a sort of balance to it that made them look uncanny instead of whatever else they were probably going for. If Blackstar really thought about it, he would consider the place kind of creepy. It felt like a horror movie set from the 1950’s. He had also heard that the president of the college was an oddball with a strange demeanor and an even stranger family, so Blackstar chalked the weird architecture up to that guy’s own weird tastes. 

“How can anyone tell where the hell they’re going?” Soul grumbled as he squinted out the windshield. He looked into the rearview mirror and then his side mirror, face twisting in utter confusion. “Everything looks the same here.” Blackstar shrugged and stared out the window. He definitely wasn’t in awe of the sameness of the buildings that loomed what looked like miles above the car or the way even the moss creeping up the sides looked precisely measured and cut. Blackstar watched the students lug their backpacks over their shoulders and chat with one another, laughing and wrapping their arms around each other. He certainly didn’t have to fight back the feeling that he was totally out of place here. Even the students themselves seemed perfect, with their perfect clothes and perfect friends and the perfect homelife that they could probably come back to when their perfect classes were over. Blackstar shook his head like that would loosen the bitterness in his brain and turned back over to Soul. 

He was looking at the GPS on his phone that hung by a clip attached to the vent, then back out the windshield, and then to his phone again. He nodded to himself and made a sound that Blackstar couldn’t discern. “Okay,” he mumbled more to himself than to Blackstar, “okay, she said she was in the cafe. And that should be attached to the building that’s down this way… okay, I think I know where we are.” He paused and flicked his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.” 

Blackstar let Soul orient himself with where they should be going, knowing that he would have been absolutely no help. When they finally found themselves parking near a building that felt like an epicenter for this oversized campus, with students milling around and coming in and out at a steady rate, Soul leaned his head over the steering wheel and sighed. Blackstar offered an only mildly sarcastic pat to his friends back for comfort. “You did it, soldier. The mission was a success. And only a handful of casualties this time.”

His kindness was met with a swat to the hand. Soul sat back up and fixed his hair in the rearview mirror. Blackstar could only handle so much of Soul’s attempts to woo Maka before it felt like nails digging themselves into his brain and pulling it apart.

“C’mon, Casanova,” He snapped, “Maka’s been waiting on us forever.”

That earned him a glare, but there was no heat behind it. Soul stepped out of the car and Blackstar followed close behind. What had been a downpour a couple of hours prior was now nothing more than a light drizzle. It kept the sun away and settled a dreariness into Blackstar’s bones. The weather added the final touch to the creepy nature of the college, which was some “academy”, and looked as pretentious as it sounded. Scanning the area, Blackstar felt like anyone who glanced his way could tell that he wasn’t a student here. Not that it should even matter or that he should even care, but the thought remained a nagging burn in the back of his mind. His jeans were distressed from overuse and not because he bought them that way, his white sneakers were fraying at the edges, and his hoodie didn’t have a label that would immediately give away its price. When Blackstar looked over at Soul, he didn’t really think that he looked as if he belonged either, but at least he had a way about him that gave off the vibe that he couldn’t care less about “belonging” anywhere. He just existed where he desired and didn’t put much energy into what others thought about it. Blackstar believed that he was also pretty good at giving off that impression, but sometimes he simply wished he could make himself believe it as much as he acted like he did. 

A fleeting thought crossed his mind how, if he had stayed with his family, everyone would have to respect him, regardless of what he looked like or where we went. The idea was shoved away before it had a chance to stay and gain purchase. He deserved respect, but not by becoming a glorified bully. Big stars didn’t have to make people afraid of them in order to be respected. They earned it fair and square. 

He walked beside Soul as they entered the building and was immediately hit with the intoxicating aroma of numerous baked goods; pastries, breakfast sandwiches, as well as more teas and coffees than Blackstar realized even existed. It was a conscious effort not to let his jaw hang slack. Soul tried not to show how impressive he thought the place was, but Blackstar knew him well enough to recognize the subtle nod of his head or the twitch in his fingers. He nudged Soul’s side and let out a low whistle. Soul chuckled and widened his eyes, lips pulling back from his teeth as he whispered, “I know, right?” Blackstar laughed but didn’t say anything else. 

They spotted Maka standing idly near the barista’s counter, chatting with someone sporting light pink hair and an all black outfit. Soul saw her first and strode over like someone with purpose. Blackstar bit back his grin and followed, happily letting his friend lead. When Maka saw them she immediately perked up and smiled with teeth, giving them a little wave with her hand. “Hey, guys!” She said, “took you long enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Soul drawled but saddled up next to her with ease. “You’re lucky we showed up at all. 9:30 in the morning is way too early to haul my ass here.”

“Pft,” Blackstar sputtered with a laugh tickling the back of his throat and clogging the space between his words, “what are you talking about? You were up at, like, 6- ow!” The elbow landing square in his side made Blackstar recoil. He responded by punching Soul in the arm, to which he grimaced but showed little sign that he was affected by the retaliation. 

“Boys,” Maka started, tone hardened and glare even stonier, “play nice. You don’t wanna look like idiots in front of my friend, do you?”

At that, Maka’s pink haired friend straightened their spine and swallowed. They reminded Blackstar of a frightened cat, like one that someone might spot hiding under a car in the rain. You try to approach it because you don’t think that it will do well in this environment, but it anticipates your outstretched hand as an attack and remains just out of reach. Right now, it looked like this entire social interaction was the hand reaching towards them, and they wished they could sink deeper beneath the car's exterior. They raised up both of their hands and shook their head.

“No, no, it’s okay!” They dropped their hands and rubbed nervously at the base of their arm, eyes locked to the ground. “It’s, uhm, nice to meet you. I’m Crona.”

“They’re in my English class. Their poems are hauntingly beautiful, it’s really nice being able to read them.” Maka filled in and offered Crona a soft smile. A red tint flushed across their cheeks and they gripped their arm tighter, but smiled in return. 

“Maka is one to talk. Her writing is really excellent.”

“Awe, thanks, Crona. That means a lot coming from you.” She turned her attention back to Soul and Blackstar and pointed a thumb in Crona’s direction. “They’re also the friend who gave me the heads up about that club looking for bands to play.”

“That was you? Oh, man,” Soul reached out to grab Crona’s hand and give it a firm shake. “We seriously owe you one, you have no idea how badly we needed a gig like this.”

“Oh, well, I-”

“Hang on just a sec, Soul.” He dropped Crona’s hand and quirked a brow in Maka’s direction. Blackstar felt his heart stop beating for a fraction of a second. Soul wasn’t wrong when he said that they desperately needed a real, legitimate gig. They had been practicing so hard for so long and deserved something to show for their efforts. He deserved something to show for their efforts. He needed something to show for their efforts.

Maka swirled her iced coffee and took a breath. “We don’t have the gig yet, exactly. We have to send a video in of our audition, and if they like us enough, we’ll be on the roster.” 

“That’s nothin’!” Blackstar put his hands on his hips and let out a boisterous laugh. “We’ve got this thing in the bag. We know that we’re the best of the best, and we’ve been practicing our asses off. I can already see our name on that roster; Star Scythe!”

“It’s Death Scythe.”

“Temporarily.” 

Maka smacked Blackstar lightly on the arm. “You shouldn’t be so cocky! It’s one thing to be confident, it’s another to be in over your head.” She looked at Crona apologetically. “I’m sorry for him.” Blackstar waved her off with his hand and shot Crona a wink that he hoped said ‘I’m not actually a douchebag’. Maka ignored him and turned back to Crona.

“Hey, you wanna come back with us? We were probably gonna hangout anyway, maybe practice a little. You’re welcome to join us.”

Crona smiled at the offer but shook their head. “Thanks, but I actually have plans. Uhm, but I would love to visit some other time, if you’re free.”

“Of course! Any time. Would you wanna walk out together?” Crona perked up at Maka’s suggestion and nodded their head. 

“Yes, I would love that. Thank you.” 

The walk out of the school’s cafe was pleasant. Blackstar liked Crona already and could see how much Maka cared about them. He wasn’t sure how Soul would handle meeting one of Maka’s college friends, but Blackstar thought that he seemed keen on them, too. When they made it to the parking lot and back to Soul’s car, Crona nodded their head towards a black Chevy Impala and bid them goodbye. Blackstar watched them head towards the car, thinking that he would have to compliment them on their sweet ride the next time they met up, when he saw someone else step out of the driver's side. 

Blackstar couldn’t make out all of the details on the guy’s outfit or the intricacy of the jewelry that he was wearing, but he wished he was able. He felt frozen in place, body running warm as he stared at this angel of darkness. He had black hair cut into bangs that kissed his nose and fell around his ears, coming down the back of his neck and turning into a cowlick just above his shoulders. Somehow, he had the sickest set of white stripes on the left side, and he was wearing an outfit that consisted of a pressed white button up, black suspenders with what looked like skull clips, black slacks with sleek combat boots peeking out from the bottom, with silver chains dangling on both sides of his pockets. Blackstar thought he might’ve also noticed some rings and black nail polish, but he was too far to be completely certain. 

Crona went around to the other side of the car to enter the passenger’s side and the two exchanged words that Blackstar couldn’t make out. He heard a hint of the man’s voice and was convinced for a split second that the bones in his legs had been reduced to jello. Just from a distance Blackstar could tell that this guy was hot, had a wicked good taste in cars, and he was making Blackstar think about what kind of ring he would use to propose. The wedding bells were singing through his skull and he threw his arms over the roof of Soul’s car to keep steady. “Woah,” he breathed and landed his chin on the side of his arm. The mystery man of his dreams barked what sounded like a command before climbing back in the car and for a quick moment, Blackstar was blessed with the way those slacks hugged him from behind. He whistled and was only brought out of his trance by Soul honking the horn. Blackstar jumped and leaned down to shoot him an annoyed look from the window. 

“Come on, man, we’re wasting daylight,” Soul shouted up at him. Blackstar huffed and slunk into the backseat so Maka could lay claim to the front beside Soul. As he was getting buckled in, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Hey, Soul. You wanna be the best man at my wedding?” 

Soul snorted while he started up the car and threw an arm behind Maka, turning around in his seat and looking behind him to check his back windshield. He didn’t look at Blackstar as he responded, “Bold of you to assume anyone would wanna marry you in the first place.” 

Maka reached to turn the radio on and only heard about three seconds of a song before Soul turned back to the steering wheel and turned the radio back off with haste. She tried one more time but was met with the same fate. Soul didn’t even have the courtesy to act sheepish. Maka groaned but left it alone and instead turned around in her seat to face Blackstar. She grinned and made an “oooo” sound while wiggling her fingers in his direction. “Blackstar,” she sang, “did you meet someone? Since when? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since we’ve last seen each other.”

“Well,” Blackstar leaned back in his seat and waved a hand, “I didn’t meet him, exactly. But I think I get what they mean now when they say ‘love at first sight’. Or, at least, ‘I recognized an absolute hottie at first sight and wouldn’t mind taking him to bed with me’.” 

“Oh, yeah, your pullout couch is perfect for a hot night.” Soul teased. He received a swift kick to the back of his seat in revenge. 

“It’s not the bed that counts. It’s what you do in it.”

“Oh, gross! I’m sorry I asked.” Maka turned forwards and pulled out her phone. “Okay, well, who is this guy that you intend to marry even though you’ve never spoken a word to each other?”

“I dunno. Whoever it was that was driving Corona-”

“Crona.”

“ Crona . Whoever it was driving Crona around. Didn’t you see the white doves flying around his head? And there’s no way you missed the church bells that started ringing.”

“You’re getting married in a church?” Soul snickered and used one hand to pull open his music app, the other holding the steering wheel carefully. Blackstar shrugged. 

“I’d get married in a dumpster if that's what that boy wanted.”

“Blackstar, are you sure?” The concerned edge that Maka’s tone suddenly took on made the drummer sit up a little straighter. “I think that was Kid…”

“Really? He looked about our age.”

“No, no,” She tried fighting back a laugh. “That’s his name. Or, at least, that’s what everyone calls him. If that was who I think it was, he’s the son of the academy’s president. I don’t want to judge, but… I’ve just heard some weird stories about him, that’s all. I mean it when I said I don’t think you should get in over your head. And I know how you get about a challenge.” 

A bitter taste made its way across Blackstar’s tongue, something sour and sticky. He wasn’t sure why the news hit his gut the way it did, like someone sucker-punched him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. He had experienced something similar after looking at Kid, but at the time it had been pleasant. This felt like an assault. He swallowed against the foul taste and hoped his voice sounded more confident than he felt, “Cool, so he’s loaded. His dad can pay for our honeymoon.” 

“Blackstar, I’m serious. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up or for you to get excited about something and then have your heart broken over it, that’s all. You have a big heart with a lot of love to give, and I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

Without thinking, Blackstar’s hands went to grip at his knees and his lips tightened into a thin line. While deep down he knew that he appreciated Maka’s concern, it was an experience that he was still unfamiliar with, and he was aware of how easy it was for his mind to warp that kind of genuine caring into someone attempting to belittle him. He took a deep breath through his nose and steadied his gaze straight ahead. “Thanks,” he said and almost meant it, “I’ll make sure to send you our wedding invitation last.”

Maka sighed and sent a message on her phone. “Alright, alright,” she caved, “just be careful, okay? I’ve heard some weird stuff about him and his family.” 

Blackstar leaned forward and placed a hand on Maka’s shoulders. They locked eyes and he was surprised to see an emotion swimming behind her green irises that he couldn’t place. It was easy to forget just how long they had known each other. She was like a sister to him, and while he would rather no one worry about him but himself, part of his heart did swell seeing how adamant she was about his safety. He nodded his head with a genuine smile and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. “Hey, c’mon now. Don’t worry about me, Maka. You know I’m just kiddin’ around.”

Maybe if he said it out loud enough times that he was joking, his brain would believe him. Maka didn’t appear convinced either, but she patted his hand with her own and smiled. “Yeah.” Her gaze flicked upwards and then back down to meet Blackstar’s. Her expression changed subtly, the corners of her eyes crinkling and her smile lifting impishly. “He was pretty cute though, wasn’t he?”

“Huh?” Soul finally seemed to tune back into the conversation. The subtle drifting of the car towards the center line was not lost on Blackstar and he laughed, throwing himself back against his seat. 

“Wait, do you seriously think that guy was cute? Maka?” The car filled up with laughter, and any unease that Blackstar had felt previously melted away. He would worry about making their wedding invitations later, after they sent in their audition video and got this upcoming gig. He had plenty of time. 

Chapter Text

The weeks prior to the club’s decision on what band would play for their latest event were grueling, to say the least. Everyone was stressed and tired and perhaps more than a little irritable. There was a newfound tension that held the space between every note they played, and a weight was looming over them and pressing down on their shoulders that hadn’t been there before. In the past, they had practiced to hone their skills and hopefully get recognized and picked up by someone, by anyone , willing to listen; now not only did they have something to gain, but they had something to lose. If they had any chance at all of having a real opportunity to get out of Soul’s basement and play with the big leagues, it was this gig. 

Their audition video had to be squeaky clean and flawless. They all knew it, and that only exacerbated their heightened emotions. Soul had even snapped at Wes after his older brother had interrupted one of their sessions, which stunned Blackstar. The two were known to not always get along, but for Soul to bark at his older brother so blatantly, in front of his friends, was a surprise. Wes had handled it with as much grace as could be expected and told Soul that if his attitude would look like that the rest of the night, then his practice should be cut short. Blackstar and the others were forced to simply grimace by the sidelines while Soul stomped his foot and told Wes the importance of their continued work, to which Wes replied that it was his name on the lease. It took the Evans brothers their respective amount of time to cool off, but Death Scythe had luckily been able to keep playing that night, even if the volume and energy levels were significantly lower.

It became such a recurring thought for Blackstar that even going back home to his apartment in order to sleep felt like a betrayal to the band, regardless of if he knew logically that it wasn’t the case. Tsubaki and Maka never spent the night in Soul’s basement, agonizing over the same measure for hours on end, and no one expected them to. For Blackstar, as restless and antsy as he was becoming the closer the submission deadline neared, it was also the most focused he had been in ages. It seemed like the only other thought on his mind aside from eating, sleeping, and playing, centered on that brief encounter with his angel of darkness, for whom he knew very little.

Perhaps “encounter” had been too strong of a word. In actuality, it had only been Blackstar admiring Crona’s mysterious friend from across the parking lot. Humorously, Blackstar had later made the joke that he would tell their children that it had been their “meet cute”, to which Soul responded that they both had to have met for it to qualify. Blackstar told him not to get hung up on specifics. 

The drummer had asked Maka to get more information on the goth god of his dreams, but she seemed aggressively vexed at the mere idea. If Blackstar knew one thing, however, it was how to be annoying, and he fully intended to bug Maka to the point of her acquiescence. Unfortunately for him, though, she was used to his antics and could easily ignore him like nothing more than a fly acting as a nuisance over her shoulder. Still, as a “labor of love”, or so she called it, she did manage to gather what little information about this “Kid” that she could, without dragging Crona into the mix. She said that she didn’t want Crona to get the impression that she was only friends with them to get closer to Kid, which Blackstar could understand and respect. Her digging had failed to bring up anything substantial about the young man, and Blackstar complained that what she had gathered could have just as easily been brought to his attention through a quick internet search. He recalled Maka scoffing and saying something along the lines of, “Fine, see if I help you out with anything ever again.” Blackstar considered that while it was harsh, it was also fair.

All that Blackstar knew was that his full name was apparently “Death the Kid”, which was as badass as it was hilarious. He sounded like someone straight out of a western, or maybe an anime. From Maka’s understanding, it was more of a title that was bestowed upon him rather than an actual “name”, with his father, the president of the academy that Maka attended, going by “Lord Death”. Despite his father running the place, and he had been for many years now, Kid did not attend the school. In fact, Maka was convinced that he had been, and continues to be, homeschooled. There were a multitude of rumors whispering through the halls of her college about him and his family, but she said she refused to actually subscribe to any of them until she knew more. Upon Blackstar’s consistent, eager requests, she informed him of a couple; some students said that he had an older brother who was disowned and discarded from the family, others said that Kid had physically attacked a teacher and thus was not allowed to attend the school, and there were multiple stories that varied in believability about his neurotic nature and tendency to throw fits over minor details, and by his dress alone Blackstar considered that there may have been some truth sprinkled in with the over exaggerations or complete lies.

As intrigued as he was by such a handsome man of mystery, Blackstar had bigger issues at hand. He could draw up wedding plans once his band secured their rightful place up on stage and he started to get a steady flow of income into his pockets. His only job at the moment was helping Sid out at the gym, which allowed him free access without having to pay for a membership. The job wasn’t difficult and luckily he didn’t work at the front, where he would have to check people in and deal with angry customers who weren’t aware that their membership had expired. For the most part, Blackstar cleaned, occasionally fixed equipment, and escorted anyone out who became too rowdy or made the other patrons feel uncomfortable; but more than anything, it was not lost on Blackstar that Sid had him on payroll to keep his nose clean and out of trouble. Sid had the belief that if someone was moving and working, it would be a lot harder to find oneself in lockup. Sometimes, Blackstar wondered if Sid and Naigus saw him for the man he was trying to become, or if they only saw the shakily lined star tattoo on his shoulder and the angry, caged animal screaming behind his eyes, just waiting for its opportunity to come out and follow in his family’s footsteps. They had seen Blackstar at some of his most vulnerable moments, a young boy hiccupping with sobs while his bruises turned purple and his eyes red with tears, and they had never once thought him a monster. At the very least, that’s what Blackstar kept reminding himself in the hopes that one day he would actually believe it.

The sweat that had gathered in his palms made it hard to keep a firm grip on his drumsticks. While his friends bickered in front of him, he took the moment to rest them on the snare drum and wiped his hands on his shorts. His eyes found Tsubaki’s, and he gave her a sympathetic, yet optimistic smile. It looked like she tried returning one of the same nature, but it didn’t reach her eyes. In the hopes of making her laugh, Blackstar scrunched up his eyes and stuck out his tongue to twist his face into something humorous. Tsubaki chuckled softly behind her hand, and Blackstar counted it as a small victory. He was a winner, through and through, always. 

“Soul, if we don’t take at least one day off this week, we’re only going to get worse. And I still have homework, remember? Some of us are still in school. No offense, Blackstar.” Maka didn’t look in his direction as she brought him into the conversation. Blackstar simply shrugged and picked up one of his drumsticks to start twirling between two fingers.

“None taken, bookworm.”

“Worse than we already are ?” Soul was fuming, and by the shaky breath of his words, he didn’t look as if he would be calming down in the near future. Blackstar looked up from his drumsticks and cleared his throat to interrupt any further comments. 

“Okay,” he said, “now that I take offense to. Soul, we’ve been busting our asses, and we’re doin’ a damn good job. And Tsubaki also has homework.” At the mention of her name, the bassist turned on Blackstar in horror. He raised his hands up, palms out in defense, while still balancing one of the sticks expertly weaved through his fingers. “Hey, if the girls go home, I can always stick around and keep workin’ on that one part of “Papermoon” that I always end up half a beat behind in. Lemme be your little drummer boy, Soul. You know you wanna.” He dropped his hands and raised his brows expectantly.

It could come up as a 50/50 chance that Blackstar’s inane teasing could either help Soul take a moment to pause and breathe and see some sense, or it could only work to rile him up further. Luckily, it seemed that the guitarist just needed a moment to take a step back and think. He looked over at Blackstar and his eyes were soft at the edges and apologetic. A sigh pushed up from his chest and over his lips and he looked back at Maka and Tsubaki, who stood across from him and loitered closer to the drums. A grimace pulled at his features, and while it seemed like it took him a moment to conjure the words, Soul finally relented.

“I’m sorry, guys. You’re right– you’re right, I was being really uncool.” He ran a hand through his white hair, which only left it looking even more disheveled than it had been before. Blackstar guessed he had probably been doing a lot of racking his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to clear his mind. 

“Overworking ourselves isn’t going to get us anywhere.” Soul raised his guitar up over his head and set it gently down on one of the stands behind him. He looked like he could follow shortly after, perhaps benefiting from crumpling to the ground and taking a break. “I’m just… stressed over this whole thing. That stupid video is due in, like, three days and I’m freaked that we aren’t perfect enough. And I want to send it in before the last day. They might, I don’t know, forget or stop looking at them or see later submissions like it’s a bunch of people who don’t care enough and want to get ‘em in at the last minute.” He scrubbed at his forehead like it would shove the nerves right out of his brain. “I just want us to be perfect.” His voice was quiet, and Blackstar wondered if he had meant to say it out loud at all. His chest ached for his friend, but it also panged with understanding. He knew better than most just how badly Soul wanted this because he wanted it just as badly. He needed them to secure this position.

The more they had looked into it, the more appealing it sounded. This wasn’t simply a job that they would appreciate; it had the opportunity to get them discovered, even if that might be wishful thinking. The club was asking for one band for one month, and they would get paid $50 each, for every session that they played. If they played every Friday and Saturday at least, for one month, Blackstar would be $450 richer. While it may not seem like much to some, the idea of making that much from doing something that he absolutely loved was enough to make him salivate and jump around the room like a kid hyped up on candy. And that was only if they played weekends only; if they had gigs throughout the week or on Sundays, that number would only get higher and higher. Not to mention, the people that attended this club actually went because they wanted to experience live music and enjoy it with their drinks and friends. What was better exposure than playing for people who actually gave a shit about what you had to say?

“We’ll never be perfect,” Maka reminded him and fixed the microphone back in its stand, “but we’ll be good. We’ll be really good.” Her smile was sincere and forgiving, but it was also incredibly tired. Blackstar could feel for her, too; while her living situation wasn’t as precarious as his or Soul’s, she still had to deal with her obnoxious, overbearing dad and a mother that, while Maka could sing praises about, never seemed to be around or show any interest in her daughter's well being. She loved singing just as much as Blackstar loved playing his drums, and she wanted this to go well for them. But she also had a steady roof over her head, no immediate need to get a job, and had her classes and schoolwork to worry about. 

“I think I’m going to head home, guys,” Maka said around a yawn. She rubbed at her eyes and looked over at Tsubaki. “You comin’, Tsu? I could give you a ride.”

Tsubaki perked up and bowed her head slightly in appreciation. “I probably should,” she admitted sheepishly. “Thank you for driving me.”

“No problem!” Maka made her way over to the ratty loveseat and picked up her backpack and started slipping on her shoes. Soul watched her with a look of desperation and exhaustion, and while Blackstar couldn’t exactly place why, it was still almost too hard to watch. He turned his attention back to Tsubaki and spun from side to side in his drummer's seat. 

“So,” he drawled and tapped his drumsticks together, letting out a wooden, “ ping, ping, ping ” as he did so, “D’you think we’re gonna get it?”

Tsubaki looked at him and contemplated his question. He had hoped for an immediate, “Well, yes, of course,” and seeing her have to sit on his inquiry twisted something in his stomach. She appeared to mull over the idea before finally settling on a smile and, “I think we have a chance.”

“A chance?” Blackstar asked, incredulous. His drumsticks stopped spinning in surprised hands, remaining stagnant and stunned. A scoff lodged its way in the back of his throat, but he didn’t allow it to fall into the air. He and Tsubaki spoke two different languages at times; her language was careful, reserved, and calculated to the point that it made it difficult for any confidence to peek through. Blackstar, on the other hand, was loud in everything that he said and did, from his volume to his beliefs. He talked in absolutes and winnings, with no concept of failure daring to enter his vocabulary lest it be promptly squashed. While they did not always agree, it was easy to see that they were a good balance for each other. 

“Tsubaki, are you kiddin’? We are gonna crush the competition! We rock!”

“I know, Blackstar, it’s just…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes grew distant and glossy. She looked into Blackstar’s hopeful gaze and bit the inside of her cheek. “We don’t know anything about the competition, or how many others are sending in their auditions. I just think it would be… beneficial if we curb our expectations, that’s all.” 

At that, Blackstar threw back his head and laughed. When he looked back up, a frown was pulling down Tsubaki’s features. She was explicitly unamused. He raised a single blue brow, but his smile was unrelenting. “Curb our expectations? What does that even mean? Tsubaki, if you expect the best, then you become the best. And I’m the best drummer there is! I’m a total star, and together, we’re the best. You’re a smart girl. It’s simple math, really.” 

Tsubaki’s frown lifted ever so slightly at the edges, but she didn’t seem convinced. Blackstar could see how badly she wanted to believe in him and trust his blind optimism, and he desperately wanted to reel her into his way of thinking, but her hesitation restrained her. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something in response, closed it, and then opened it again, “I love the confidence, Blackstar. Really, I do. I would just hate to see you be disappointed. I know how badly you have your heart set on this.” Her pale hand reached out and she gently touched his chest, right above the space where his heart pumped life into him. Blackstar looked down at her hand and then back up to her eyes. There was so much sadness buried beneath her grey-blue irises that it pained Blackstar to see just how much she had hidden. When was the last time she had ever let down some of that suffering for someone else to hold? Her hand pressed against him so she could feel his chest, and then she pulled back, the smile on her face soft but stronger than it had been before.

“We all have our hearts set on this,” she continued, “which makes it so much easier for them to break.” Blackstar swirled ideas around in his head for an appropriate response, but Maka calling for Tsubaki and asking if she was ready interrupted any train of thought that he tried to maintain. Tsubaki gave him one last smile, this one more genuine, and ruffled his hair with a small laugh. 

“Be good, and try to get to bed at a decent time. I love you, okay?” 

Blackstar’s hands reached up to fix his hair, but it was always a mess that jutted out from any angle that the tresses saw fit. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and smiled back at Tsubaki. “Yeah, yeah, love you, too. I’ll see ya later.”

She nodded to him and then turned to Maka, who was holding Tsubaki’s forgotten bag out to her. She took it with thanks, waved goodbye to Soul, and then two were heading up the stairs and out of the basement. Blackstar hollered an obnoxious, “Get outta here, schoolgirl” to Maka as she ascended the steps, but received nothing more than a “shut up, I’ll see you tomorrow” in return. He grinned and let his drumsticks fall on his bass drum. When he looked up to see how Soul was doing, he saw his friend slumped against the loveseat where Maka had been sitting a few minutes prior. He was certainly worse for wear, with his eyebags prominent enough for Blackstar to see them across the room, hair greased and unkept, and gaze vacant and downcast. As always, this looked like a job for Blackstar; once again he would come to the rescue. It was just what a big star did.

He stood from behind his drum set and made his way over to Soul in a few short strides. He plopped down next to the guitarist and put as much weight into his body as he could on the descent, so he could fluff the torn cushion and make Soul feel the reverberations from the impact. His efforts were met with Soul barely turning his head to the side and tiredly quirking a brow. Blackstar, seeing that Soul wouldn’t be the first one to say anything, decided to initiate the conversation. “Dude,” he started and patted Soul’s shoulder mockingly, “you look like shit.”

“I know,” Soul groaned and pulled his shoulder away from Blackstar’s hand meekly. Blackstar grimaced.

“You’re not supposed to agree, man.”

The groan that came out of Soul was impressive. Blackstar thought, with only mild amusement, that if they were going to be doing any metal songs, he should put Soul on vocals. He watched the other put his face in his hands and hunch over his knees. He rubbed at his face and didn’t look in Blackstar’s direction. When he spoke, he sounded like he had been hollowed from the inside out and replaced with a ghost, “I need to shower, I need to eat, and I should probably apologize to Wes. It’s just– so much crap happened at once.”

“You can talk to me about it, you know. Cool guys don’t keep stuff like this to themselves.” Blackstar leaned over to meet Soul’s eyes, and the hand that found its way across his friend's back was without humor. For as much as Blackstar acted like a cocky asshole at times, he knew when to take it down a notch and be there for the people he cared about. Soul was his best friend and his ride-or-die. If there was an issue bothering him, he wanted to know about it and be there with him to face it. 

“I know,” Soul repeated and covered his face with his hands once more. He spoke through his palms, the sound muffled but audible, “I’m just stressed. It’s fuckin’ stupid, I know, but I’m stressed. I’m…” He paused, rolling the words over on his tongue. “I’m worried about Maka ditching the band and getting caught up in school. I’m freaked over this whole audition, because it could seriously help us, and we haven’t been booked in almost half a year.” His hands went away from his face to push some loose strands of white hair from his forehead. He continued to look ahead, which was fine with Blackstar. He figured it was probably easier for Soul to spew his guts when he wasn’t directly facing the person he was spewing them to. A sigh caught in Soul’s throat and it sounded like he warped it into a growl just to move it past.

“My parents sent us some money.” He leaned back and finally looked at Blackstar, who was sitting with one leg on the ground and another curled in on the couch. His mouth had fallen open, which made Soul glare. Blackstar shook his head and pushed his jaw closed with his hand. 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just– your parents? Sent you guys money? How’d they even find you? How much did they send? What are you gonna do with it? Did you already spend it? Did they say anything?”

Soul took Blackstar’s barrage of questions in stride. His lips pursed before he answered, tired eyes looking into Blackstar’s, yet not really seeing him, “I dunno if they said anything, or how much they sent, exactly. I don’t even know when they sent it, but I know it was recent. Wes got to it first and tried to hide it from me. That’s why we’ve been so pissy with each other lately.”

Blackstar had to make a conscious effort not to let his jaw hang slack again. He stared at Soul with wide eyes and probably did a poor job of not letting his bewilderment show. As far as he was aware, neither Wes nor Soul had heard from their parents in years. Not since they had moved out and said that they desired no contact with the rest of the family, save for occasional interactions with their grandmother, but even those were few and far between. “I just thought he was pissed because we keep comin’ around his house, making a bunch of noise, eating his food, and then leaving.”

Soul chuckled, but it came out lifeless and airy. “Well, that doesn’t help.”

“So, wait,” Blackstar shook his head and tried to recall what Soul had said previously. “If he heard from your shitty parents and pocketed some cash without telling you, then why should you apologize?” Blackstar had never been the best student, but he could tell when something wasn’t adding up. Soul glanced up at the ceiling and scratched at the back of his neck. When he looked back at Blackstar, there were emotions swirling in his eyes that Blackstar couldn’t quite read. 

“I mean, the whole thing sucked,” he brought his hand down and while he was facing Blackstar, it was clear that he wasn’t looking at him, “and we really got into it. We fought for… fuck, three days, I think?” Blackstar wanted to add that it should have been longer, but he bit his tongue. It wasn’t easy, but he needed to let Soul vent and explain himself without too much interruption. 

“But Wes apologized. He said he didn’t want me to see it yet, that he hoped he could just hold out on telling me until he could do it in a way that didn’t… hurt, I guess.” Soul reached for one of the raggedy throw pillows that were more case than stuffing and chucked it against the opposite wall, away from the equipment and near the stairs. Blackstar watched it fly pitifully and land with an unsatisfactory thud . 

“He gave me the envelope, and it wasn’t even addressed to me. It didn’t even have my fucking name on it. All it said was “Wes Evans”. Can you believe that shit? Wes Evans…” The anger was steadily creeping into Soul’s voice, like a poison beginning to spread in the veins of its victim. But just as quickly as it had come, it began to sizzle out and die. What replaced it was sad and defeated, and it distantly reminded Blackstar of a wounded animal. “Some of it went towards rent. The rest of it went into savings. I said we shouldn’t have accepted it because we don’t need their damn handouts, but what’s done is done.” His eyes found Blackstar’s, and this time not only did he see the other, but actively searched. Blackstar wasn’t sure what he was looking for and couldn’t guarantee that he would be happy if he found it. “Wes was always their favorite, you know.” His voice was small, and nothing like what Blackstar was used to. 

“I know,” Blackstar admitted truthfully. He looked at Soul’s sunken cheeks and lowered shoulders and made an executive decision for the both of them. The drummer puffed out his chest and gave Soul’s back one final, hard hit as if he was trying to jolt him awake. Soul coughed and twisted his face into a scowl, but Blackstar cut him off before he could complain, “Okay, that’s it. You take a shower and go to bed, and I’ll head back to my place for the night. We’ll regroup tomorrow, you won’t smell like a dirty sock, we’ll absolutely kill it, record, send it in, and then wait for that sweet, sweet confirmation email.”

If Soul had any fight left in him to argue, it didn’t show. His face was still pinched as he asked, “When did you get so rational?”

“When you got so emo.” He smirked and jumped off the loveseat, the spring never once leaving his step. His hand extended to his friend and the smile across his cheeks refused to leave. He would hold out his hand every day to Soul if that’s what he needed. They had been the best of friends and thicker than thieves, getting into mischief and being there for one another since before they were even teenagers. When Blackstar felt entirely isolated and alone, with no one to consider family, he knew that he had a brother in Soul. “C’mon,” he said and wiggled the fingers on his outstretched hand, “don’t leave me hangin’ here. And don’t make me keep havin’ to smell you, either. You reek.”

“Shut up,” Soul griped, but the bark was out of his words. He hadn’t managed to pull up a smile, but his eyes were recognizably softer. “You didn’t even know I hadn’t showered until I mentioned it.”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.” 

Soul bit the corner of his lip but eventually took Blackstar’s hand and used him to stand up. “You don’t have to head out tonight, by the way,” He started once he was upright and facing Blackstar. “Once I’m done with my shower, we can come back down and work on some of the music, and the living room couch is always available for you. Or the loveseat down here. We could-”

Blackstar held up his hand and shook his head, cutting Soul off before he could continue. He could see what Soul was trying to do clear as day, even if the other hadn’t realized it yet. If they focused enough on their songs and Blackstar hung around long enough, it would be less time that Soul would have to speak with his brother, and it would probably amount to him getting less sleep, too. As appealing as the offer was to stay and rock out, it would only get them further from their goal and further from any actual rest. “No can do,” Blackstar said, arms coming up to cross over his chest, “We both need to get some sleep and chill our minds out. I’m gonna go back to my place and sleep, and you’re gonna go to bed and then talk to your brother in the morning. It’s awkward as hell comin’ over here when you guys are fighting.” 

Soul’s frown deepened, but his eyes, swimming with exhaustion, told Blackstar that he knew the other was right. His hands found the pockets of his jacket and he breathed a deep but quick, resolute sigh. “Yeah, okay,” His eyes focused on what appeared to be a particularly interesting part of the floor, that of which he had seen nearly every day for the past seven years or so. “Hey,” he looked up at Blackstar and tilted his head. “Want me to give you a ride back on the bike?”

Blackstar’s face broke out in devious excitement. His hands rubbed together to emphasize how badly he wanted nothing more than to be brought back to his apartment on the bike. 

“You still got my helmet?”

Blackstar liked to joke that the only reason he was still friends with Soul after all of these years was because of his motorcycle. It was a beauty that only remained that way because of the blood, sweat, and tears that Soul had poured into it. He’s had the thing since he was fourteen years old when driving a car was obviously out of the question, but getting from place to place on his own terms was a necessity. With Blackstar’s help, they had found a guy selling a roughed-up but decently intact orange and black motorcycle for cash and who wouldn’t ask too many questions. Maka thought the idea was ridiculous and terrifying and was convinced Soul was going to crash and crack his head clean open, but he had taken riding it very seriously. He was a diligent and careful driver, and such the same could be said when he was behind the wheel, too. That didn’t stop him and Blackstar from popping wheelies and spinning donuts after the first few months of acquiring the nice set of wheels, but what didn’t kill them made Maka none the wiser.

The ride to his apartment had felt too quick. There was something completely exhilarating and like nothing that Blackstar could think to compare about riding on the back of the motorcycle. The world passed him in a frenzied blur so close he could touch it. His clothes whipped and tugged at his body and the air slapped his skin and made him feel alive, like he was truly waking up for the first time and experiencing the earth firsthand. The sound of the rumbling motor made itself known by vibrating all the way into his chest, to the point where he could feel the engine dancing in his fingertips. The visor of his helmet was clear and allowed Blackstar to take in the world around him like a camera snapping as many polaroid's as it could in short, sustained bursts. Soul’s car tended to be more practical for most outings, but anytime they had a chance to take the motorcycle, Blackstar accepted with glee.

Soul slowed down as they neared the apartment complex, and almost immediately Blackstar’s skin itched and buzzed with the desire to get back on the road, faster than ever. The sounds of the wind and bugs and animals were soon replaced with distant yelling, sirens that Blackstar recognized as an ambulance and not the police, and car horns blaring from far-off parking lots. Home sweet home, he thought with only slight bitterness. He supposed he shouldn’t be so ungrateful about his living situation. Regardless of size or location, it was his and his alone, and it certainly beat the streets or sleeping next to his family inside a jail cell.

As Soul rode up and parked diagonally from Blackstar’s building, he watched the blue-haired idiot hop off the bike before it slowed to a complete stop. His voice was muffled through his helmet as he spoke, “Blackstar, you know I hate it when you do that.” 

The man in question noted the still wet strands of Soul’s freshly showered hair clinging to his forehead through the visor and grinned, taking his own helmet off and tossing it to Soul, who caught it in one hand. “Yeah, yeah. Get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow. Text me when you’re awake, loser.” 

Soul shot him with a pair of finger guns and pulled the trigger. “We’ll record our audition and send that bitch in. Can’t wait.” 

Blackstar returned his finger guns with two of his own, shooting them rapidly in succession while whispering quiet, “ pew, pew, pew ”s into the night. Part of him worried over every small sound he made, lest he invoke the wrath of the other tenants or worse, a landlord that was already convinced that he was up to no good, regardless of all the payments he made on time or how respectful he tried to act. 

“Later, man.”

“Later.” Soul spun out of the apartment’s parking lot with a sudden screech, and Blackstar felt a claw of nerves grip his spine. He let his body linger in the parking lot for longer than he wanted, just to be certain that no one was going to come angrily storming out of their apartment with a shaking fist and a demand for his eviction. When he discerned that the cost was clear and no one was going to come running out with a shotgun in hand, ready to get Blackstar away from their home so they could go back to sleep by any means necessary, he breathed a low sigh of relief and turned toward the building, making his way up the stairs two at a time and throwing himself against his door just to rattle it open.

He tucked his keys into his pocket and rubbed absently at his shoulder. One day he would get that damn door fixed, but complaining to the landlord at all made him want to shrivel up and lay down in a grave of his own making. Blackstar kept telling himself that if he continued to be the perfect tenant, maybe any late payments on rent could be overlooked. But if his band got this gig for a month, maybe even longer, the stress of shitty finances could transform from a boulder to a decently sized rock. It would still be heavy, but at least it might begin to feel manageable. 

With a grunt, Blackstar threw himself onto his pullout bed and kicked off his shoes. He hadn’t folded his bed back up into a couch that morning, instead opting to take a quick shower and rush over to Soul’s place to get as much practice time in as possible. It still felt unreal to him that they would be finalizing their numbers and sending in their video tomorrow. From what he could gather from the website, the email regarding their confirmation, or denial, of the spot would be sent out within the week. If they landed the gig (which Blackstar had no doubts that such an event would be the case), they would be up onstage by the end of the month. It made his head dizzy and his body electric to think that by next month, he could be making money by drumming his heart out with his closest friends. The thought might’ve brought a smaller man than him down to their knees.

As he lay on his bed, legs dangled over the edge and staring up at the ceiling, Blackstar considered how much worse his life could have been. He had been told by his friends multiple times that rolling around the “what if”s and the “could have been”s in his mind did him no favors, and while he knew that to be true, it didn’t make it any easier to shut the thoughts down when it was only him in a quiet one-room apartment in the dead of night, with only the far off roaring sounds of civilization below to keep him company. 

If his family hadn’t been caught and discovered when they were, just how much would Blackstar have had to endure? How much more would he have had to face at the hands of his father and the rest of their gang? Would he have followed in their footsteps, getting his hands so caked with blood that the stain could never be washed away? Would he have ever met Soul, or Maka, or even Tsubaki? Would he have ever discovered his love of music and his passion for playing the drums? He greatly doubted it. His days would most likely be filled with following orders set by Whitestar in order to further their own agenda of money and revenge and pain. 

He had distant memories of being a young boy, plagued with the distinct knowledge that he was meant for something terrible without even having the true grasp of what it means to be his own man. If he truly put his mind to it, he could recall working his body to the point of exhaustion and the hot, acidic bile rising in his throat like an invader waiting to be released. A hand gripping the hair on the back of his head makes his temples throb angrily, and he’s being pushed harder and harder, forced to continue the round of practiced punches. His knuckles split and the blood runs across his swollen hands. It doesn’t have a chance to congeal and scab before he’s delivering more punches to the bag. Tears and snot drip down his face and before he knows it, he can’t see in front of him, but he keeps punching. He punches again, and again, and again, knowing that the eyes staring holes in his back would accept nothing less.

Blackstar pulled himself from the memory like someone breaking their head over crashing waves and was finally permitted to gulp down mouthfuls of air. His heart had begun pounding in his chest, and a cold sweat had formed a steady perspiration across his forehead. It wasn't often that Blackstar allowed himself to revisit those memories, but sometimes the darkness of his past crept up on him, reminding him of the path he had narrowly escaped. He suddenly felt nauseous and ashamed and angry, and he willed himself to focus on the anger like a fire in his chest and kindle it. The bigger his anger grew, the harder it was to be overcome with every other emotion that danced around the outskirts of his mind. His anger might be an ugly beast with razor-sharp claws and snarling fangs, but it was hot and familiar and easier for him to swallow than the aggravated sorrow that threatened to build its home in the back of his throat. His anger could be let out through a run or slamming his fists into unsuspecting equipment at the gym, but the other feelings trying to sink their teeth into him were ones that he had less experience with, and he had no idea how to set them down, which meant he would be forced to simply sit with them. 

His chest twisted and he grabbed at his shirt in the hopes of easing the wound-up tension burning under the fabric. He sat up and bent his head down over his knees, trying to get as much breath into his lungs as he could manage. The anger began bubbling up, from a pit in his stomach to a flame beneath his ribs, now morphing and growing into a scream that swam behind clenched teeth. His exhaustion ran deep, but his need to release some of his anger into the world so he wouldn’t have to bear it all alone yelled louder. With a huff, he stood from the bed and marched into his kitchen, throwing open the refrigerator door and grabbing a bottle of water. He was already in shorts and a shirt, and though it had long sleeves, he couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to change it. He grabbed his phone, and his earbuds, and then just as quickly as he had entered his apartment he left it behind without looking back. 

Luckily, the gym was open twenty-four hours. It had multiple rooms within, with various equipment used for all different kinds of exercise needs. They also had a sauna, pool, boxing arena complete with an elevated boxing ring that was occasionally used for wrestling, and dance rooms that were mostly empty, save for a floor-to-ceiling wall of mirrors and stretch bar. Blackstar thought that he might run across the track until it felt like his legs would give out from beneath him, like his bones had turned to liquid so he could only focus on the sensation of trying to stand up again, or maybe one of the stationary bikes; as much as he wanted to slam his fists into something solid, he feared what memories the sensations might bring.

Since he technically worked there under Sid’s allowance, he had the benefit of holding keys that granted him entrance into the back of the gym. He didn’t want to greet anyone at the front desk (even if anyone would be lucky to see his handsome face) and he absolutely did not want to sign in and risk Sid knowing that he had come all the way here after midnight just to blow off steam. Sid meant well, Blackstar knew, but he wasn’t his father and Blackstar didn’t need to be babied. He wasn’t even entirely sure if Sid was here tonight, but with how early the teacher tended to wake up, he figured he’d be in the clear. Still, if that was the case, he wasn’t sure why he continued to feel as though he were sneaking in as he quietly turned the key and entered the backroom, squinting into the darkness of the cramped storage space. He shut and locked the door behind him and slipped the keys back into his pocket. 

He didn’t need to go around creeping and silent; he was Blackstar! He made grand entrances and everyone was all the better for it. That was the mantra he continued to sing to himself as he slipped out of the storage room door and exited into a large, square room with exercise equipment on both sides. There was an area dedicated specifically to weight lifting, a line of ellipticals to the side of it, treadmills against the other wall, and numerous other machines that were left unattended for the most part. This area of the gym at least appeared to be primarily open and unoccupied, which Blackstar expected. There were a few stragglers, but it seemed that Blackstar largely had the gym to himself. He fished the earbud case from his shorts pocket but didn’t have time to even place them in his ears before a booming voice stopped any movement he was about to create dead in its tracks. His blood turned to ice in his veins and a bundle of dread took up residence in his stomach.

“Just what the hell are you doin’ here at this time of night, Blackstar?”

He flinched but consciously forced a grin across his face that hopefully looked more real than it felt as he spun around in Sid’s direction. The older man had a few good feet on him, but that didn’t stop Blackstar from squaring his shoulders and smiling widely.

“I could say the same about you,” he deflected with a wink. “Don’t you have unsuspecting kids to torment in the morning?” He crossed his arms over his chest like a shield over his heart. This put a slight wrench in his plans, but he was Blackstar. He could handle anything. Sid stared down at him with a peculiar mixture of parental frustration and confusion. His lips pulled from his teeth and there was a tightness to his jaw that Blackstar couldn’t miss even if he closed his eyes. He had seen this expression plenty of times, and somehow it almost always ended in cutting short whatever plan Blackstar had concocted. His fingers gripped at his forearms and he could feel himself flex beneath the shirt.

Sid’s eyes didn’t soften. “It’s Friday. And besides, I was just comin’ in to check the place out and make sure the overnight workers were in good shape.” His brows lowered over his eyelids skeptically. Blackstar tried very hard not to feel like a science experiment being analyzed under a microscope. “You never answered my question. What are you doing here, Blackstar?”

The young man in question scoffed a laugh. His head pointed to the side and he kept his smirk on his face as he answered, “Uhm, working out? Isn’t that what a gym is for?” He didn’t need to look at Sid to know that he wasn’t satisfied with his response, but at the moment, he really didn’t think that it was his problem. He reached into his pockets to find his earbuds in what he hoped would be a blatant sign that he had no desire to continue their conversation, but Sid was determined to be acknowledged. A hand, large but gentle, grabbed Blackstar’s arm for attention. His gaze snapped upwards and a frown washed away his once confident (if not forced) smile. He searched Sid’s face and wasn’t pleased with what he found. 

“Don’t give me that shit,” Sid complained, but the edges of his words were worn down and smoothed over. It reminded Blackstar of how a lion tamer might casually scold the predator animal, and it made the sparking anger ready to ignite in Blackstar’s chest flicker with newfound life. Sid must have seen the shift behind Blackstar’s eyes because his grasp relented, but the look he gave held Blackstar in place all the same. Though his grip hadn’t been tight, Blackstar could still feel the ghost of Sid’s fingers and stopped himself before he could rub at the spot that they had been. 

Sid stood back and his eyes never left Blackstar’s as he spoke, “Don’t you and your friends have that audition thing coming up soon? The gym will still be here tomorrow. Why don’t you head back to your place for the night, huh? I can drive you. Better yet, you could come back to me and Naigus’s house, she’d love to see you-”

“I’m not some damn charity case, alright?” Blackstar’s words were sharp but uncharacteristically quiet. He scrunched up his face into a glare and took half a step back, creating any distance between himself and Sid that he could. “I’m an adult with my own place that I worked hard to get. I don’t need you coddling me all the time.”

“I’m not-” At the sound of his rising voice, Sid sucked in a quick breath and started again, lower this time. “I’m not coddling you. I care about you, idiot. And I bet I could guess the real reason you’re here right now.”

“I told you,” The edge Blackstar’s voice had taken was a clear attempt at a challenge, “I just wanna work out.”

“Are you not sleepin’ again? Blackstar, I told you-”

“And I told you to drop it!” Any efforts to keep his voice down were easily forgotten. Blackstar was nothing if not a fighter, and if it was a fight that Sid wanted, then it was one that he would receive. At this rate, even if that wasn’t what Sid had in mind, it was an offer that Blackstar was eager to deliver. As badly as he wanted to simply slink away and ignore Sid’s frustrating attempts to help, he couldn’t deny that it was stoking the flame of anger that demanded to be lit, refusing to be ignored any longer and thriving in the only ways that it knew how. His skin burned from the warmth of it and he thought that anyone else might turn to ash beneath the roaring flames, but he figured that if there was one thing that stars did best, it was burn. 

“I’m not a baby, Sid. And I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but it’s pissing me off. I just needed to blow off some steam, so I dropped by. It’s a twenty-four hour gym, I’m not committing a crime. Actually, being here is probably keeping me from committing a crime, so if anything, you should be thankful that I’m here right now. So there.” 

Sid pinched the bridge of his nose, but the crease in his forehead told Blackstar that he knew he was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it. And that wasn’t just his ego talking– probably. Blackstar knew that he had a point, and if Sid had any sense at all, he would see that, too. 

“You’re gonna put me in an early grave, kid.” He met Blackstar’s gaze and cringed at the sparkling determination lining every feature of his face. He made a sound that Blackstar thought might have been him fighting back a sigh. “You know I just get on your ass ‘cause I’m worried about you. It’s late and you’ve got a lot on your plate. But I’d be lying if I said I’d rather you on the streets than here where it’s safe.”

“Thought so.”

“Don’t get smart.” Sid checked the watch on his wrist and glowered. He looked up and pointed a finger in Blackstar’s direction. “You’ve got one hour. One. Hour. That’s it. And then I’m driving you home. Deal?”

“And if I say no dice?” The ends of Blackstar’s mouth twitched up towards his ears and if he leaned into it, he could feel the beginning of a chuckle almost bubbling up into his throat. Sid, however, remained entirely unamused. 

“Don’t care. One hour, and then we’re both goin’ home. Meet me at the front desk or I’ll find you myself.” Seeming to believe that he had said enough, Sid moved past Blackstar and started walking up the stairs toward the track. Blackstar watched him go and shouted up after him. 

“Try not to get too winded up there, old man!”

The look he got in return was probably supposed to be threatening, but it only inflated Blackstar’s already enlarged ego. Sid ascended the stairs and Blackstar made quick work of hitting the weights, focusing specifically on his arms. He also thought about doing what he had set out to do and considered following after Sid within the next half hour and finishing his set by racing around the track, but ultimately decided to stay where he was to make use of the treadmill, instead. He would have preferred to be on the track instead of a stationary treadmill and know that he was racing with somewhere to go, even if it was only in circles. There was something about running in place that felt too static and still for him, regardless of how much he was actually moving. It wasn’t the same as feeling his feet slap across the solid ground and watching the walls rush behind him the faster he pushed his body forward, but his longing to not see Sid up there and feel as if he were being scrutinized outweighed any other desires. A treadmill would do just fine. 

Admittedly, the ride back hadn’t been as painful as Blackstar had expected it to be. Sid even let him pick the music, even if he did complain like a grumpy old man about most of the songs, from “I can’t even make out what they’re saying, how is anyone expected to sing to that” to “that doesn’t even count as singing, are they using real instruments because it doesn’t sound like it”. There were a few songs throughout the playlist that earned a decently satisfied, “That one wasn’t too bad”, but those were few and far between. It entertained Blackstar more than anything, and a thought sat in the back of his mind that said that this must be what fathers and sons do. They bicker back and forth about music from a different generation while driving home together. But, when the curtain is pulled back, it reveals that Sid wasn’t actually Blackstar’s father, and they weren’t headed to the same destination. Even though the offer to come back with him and Naigus had been brought up to him, Blackstar couldn’t accept. He had his own place that he worked and cried and fought for, and he didn’t like feeling as if he was taking handouts. 

Sid reached outwards to turn the music down, which made Blackstar exclaim, “Hey!” and pout. The older man ignored him. 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you got an extra thirty minutes outta me through cooldown stretches, Blackstar. I'm not the kinda man who can be fooled so easily.”

Blackstar laughed and tilted his head to look at Sid, the same smirk he had had for the entire car ride holding strongly against his lips. “What,” he drawled smugly, “did’ya want me to end up hurting myself because I didn’t stretch properly afterward? I thought you were supposed to be smart.” 

The look that Sid gave Blackstar from the corner of his eye could have made weaker men shake. “You’re lucky I like you, kid.” 

“Of course you do,” Blackstar was quick to add, “Everyone likes me.”

For the next few moments, the inside of Sid’s car was quiet. Blackstar contemplated extending his arm out to turn the knob that would send his music blasting back out through the speakers, but he refrained. Words unsaid hung in the air between them like a thick fog, and it made Blackstar’s arms itch. Even with a gentle coolness blowing across his cheeks from the vents, he still felt warm and uncomfortable. When Sid finally broke the silence, it took Blackstar a conscious effort not to audibly breathe a sigh of relief. 

“Want me to give you a ride to your friends tomorrow? You could probably use all the rest you could get. It’s important that this video you’re recording for the audition turns out well. Right?”

Blackstar’s eyes found his hands, laid with palms up in his lap, his cell phone held comfortably under one of his legs. It was more than important that their audition tape was received well; it felt imperative. It could become Blackstar’s dream come true, and the same could be said for his bandmates. Failure simply wasn’t an option, and Blackstar had no intention of being anything other than successful. They couldn’t afford to be anything less. He pulled his gaze away from his hands and finds himself glancing out of the window instead of returning to Sid, where he waited expectantly, hands loosely on the steering wheel. The weight of the words filling Blackstar’s mouth felt almost too heavy, even for him. How could he even begin to explain what it meant to him? 

Swallowing back some of the heaviness, Blackstar settled on, “Yeah. It’s pretty important.” Maybe it was because his body felt loose but sore after his workout, or the fact that there was a fog rolling into his brain, or perhaps he was simply too exhausted to fight back anymore, but he– surprising even to himself– agreed to let Sid pick him up and drive him to Soul’s. “It’s gotta be early, though,” Blackstar warned. It was already pushing past 1:30 in the morning for them as they drove to Blackstar’s apartment. Sid shrugged a single shoulder. 

“I already told you, Blackstar,” he said without taking his eyes off of the road, “if you need me, I’ll be there.”

And ‘be there’ he was, right on time the next morning. Blackstar tried to pass off his nervous energy as simply having “too much” energy, which Sid quickly saw right through. Not skipping a beat on missing a lecture, the first thing Sid questioned Blackstar as he threw open the car door and plopped himself in the passenger's seat was, “Did you eat breakfast?”

Blackstar looked at him with a glare, a single piece of toast hanging from his lips, complete with butter smattered on the side of his cheek. He raised his eyebrows as if to say “What do you think?” before buckling himself in. Sid snorted and rolled his eyes, starting up the car and expertly maneuvering around the other cars in the parking lot. 

“Well,” he said through a chuckle, “it’s better than nothin’. We need to stop anywhere? I can grab you a drink from this convenient store up here if you want.” 

“Uh-uh,” Blackstar fumbled around his toast. “Dun nee’ ‘et. Sul ‘as orng’ joose.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full and try again.”

“Ugh.” Blackstar released the piece of toast from its prison, took a bite, and swallowed. “I’m just gonna steal some orange juice from Soul when I get there. And I’ve also got granola bars in my bag,” he patted the backpack that sat between his ankles for good measure, “so I’ll be fine.” He finished off his toast within the next three bites and contemplated for a quick moment on putting his feet up on the dashboard, but hearing Sid’s nagging voice in his ear before he even had the chance made him think better of it. He instead decided to lean back in his seat and enjoy the ride, doing his best to ignore the twisting and knotting in his stomach. The great Blackstar wouldn’t allow his nerves to override the events of today– not to say that he was having any anxiety over the situation! That would just be stupid. He knew more than anyone that Death Scythe would secure the spot, so there was simply no need to be nervous. 

If Sid caught on to Blackstar’s jitteriness, he was kind enough not to say anything. Instead, he opted simply for, “So, when do you guys find out if you’ve made it or not?”

Blackstar studied his nails like the action of appearing more nonchalant would actually make him feel more at ease. “We should hear back from ‘em in a week or so.” He craned his neck to the side to look over at Sid, even if he was busy watching the road. Blackstar didn’t mind; he knew the smile stretching across his cheeks would be audible in every word he spoke. “Don’t you worry, old man,” he gloated as he held his hand out in front of him for inspection, “we’re gonna make it.”

“What do you mean we didn’t make it?” Blackstar’s voice was strained and incredulous. “That can’t be right.” He was quickly spiraling, his mind coming up with reasons and explanations as to how such a decision could have been made. He didn’t feel completely in control of his hands as they gripped at his pants. “Read the email again!”

“I’ve read it a hundred times!” Maka responded, shrill and hurt. Blackstar flinched despite himself. They sat in the living room of Maka’s apartment, of which she shared with her father, who was currently out (as was usual for him), presumably getting wasted to pass the night away. The laptop was balanced precariously across her knees while she sat on the couch. Soul sat beside her, eyebrows drawn together and a hand over his mouth. Blackstar had shot up from his place on the floor to stand, and Tsubaki wrung her hands as she sat on the recliner. The room was hot, thick, and smoldering; any wrong move could send any of them over the edge. 

“We didn’t make it,” Maka repeated, and Blackstar wished he could put his hands over his ears and forget he had ever heard her. “It says, ‘We appreciate your submission, but unfortunately, we will be unable to accept your band at this time’. They said we could audition again, though. So… it’s not like it was all for nothing?”

“This is bullshit!” Soul dropped his hand in favor of throwing them up over his head. “We worked day in and day out just to be rejected? We’re way better than any of those other wannabe rockstars!”

“Hell yeah, we are!” Blackstar agreed and walked over to stand in front of Soul in solidarity. “Those losers got nothin’ on us! What were those people thinking?” 

Tsubaki broke through the shared camaraderie of being pissed at someone else that Soul and Blackstar were beginning to form by clearing her throat. “Guys,” she started, soft and gentle but with an unmistakable level of seriousness. “We don’t know anything about the other band that was picked. They could have more experience than us, or maybe their particular sound was just what the club was looking for. It’s nothing personal against us; we still know our worth. There will be other opportunities, and as Maka said– we can always audition again in a few months!”

“But we worked way harder than any other group out there!” Soul was taking the dismissal pretty hard, and the pinched anger in his voice gave him away entirely. He scratched at his head, making the loose white hairs fall out of whatever place they were supposed to have been in. “This is so uncool.”

“Wait a sec,” Blackstar tapped a finger to his chin. Soul looked up at him through frustrated, lidded eyes, hands restless and ever-moving. “Maybe Tsubaki has a point.”

“Are you shitting me?” The guitarist snarled, barring teeth that were probably too sharp for their own good and seething. “What the hell are you talking about, Blackstar?”

The drummer cockily grinned for the first time since entering Maka’s apartment. An idea had sprung into his mind, and it was all thanks to Tsubaki. “She said we don’t know anything about this band, right? The one that stole our gig from us?”

Maka piped up from the couch with a defeated (yet still resolutely irritable) sigh of, “They didn’t steal it from us, idiot. They probably earned it.”

“What are you getting at, man?” Soul appeared in no mood for games, but Blackstar wasn’t playing. He put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. 

“Let’s learn somethin’ about them, then.” He felt multiple sets of eyes settle on him, and he took a brief moment before continuing to bask in it. If there was one thing Blackstar could never get tired of, it was the spotlight. He allowed the feeling of having an audience sit inside his chest pleasantly for another couple of seconds and then went on to explain himself. “I say that on opening night, we head into the club, and we scope out the competition. See what they’re about and why they think they’re so much better than us. You guys in?”

Only one other bandmate responded, but it was the only one Blackstar needed. Soul stood up and knocked his fist lightly against Blackstar’s shoulder. 

“Let’s do it.”

Chapter Text

Maka and Tsubaki were completely against Soul and Blackstar barging into the club just to skulk out the competition and possibly cause a ruckus, but the boys were adamant. What was worse, they were pissed and felt personally scorned by the entire ordeal. They deserved that spot on stage and should have earned it. They were certain that they had worked harder than that other band, and they had become determined to go in and find out just what, exactly, made this other group so great that they felt they could rip away Death Scythe's rightful place on stage. 

The club that offered the position was called “Lawless”, and from the pictures that Maka had managed to pull up on her laptop, the fine establishment was just a couple of degrees above being a dive bar, but with a seemingly well-equipped stage. There was ambient mood lighting, two stories, the aforementioned stage, open spaces for dancing on each floor (with the second story opening out onto the first, guarded only by a tall railing), and a bar that stretched from one wall to the next. The walls were dark and the floor was polished concrete– at least, that’s what it looked like to Blackstar. There were posters ripped and shredded along the walls like a teenager's bedroom. Overall, in his professional opinion, Blackstar thought the vibes were sick. It only made his blood boil even more to know he hadn't been picked to play there.

His and Soul’s logic was impeccable (regardless of whether the girls thought so or not). If they inspected this rival band, listened to what music they played, and checked out how they dressed and performed on stage, maybe that would offer some insight on why Death Scythe hadn’t made the cut. Maka had said that their rejection email informed them that they could potentially audition once more in a couple of months, and if that was the case, shouldn’t they take a look at what had made this band get picked instead of them so they could find out what this place was looking for? It wasn’t as if there were record producers and open clubs simply lined up, begging for new bands with hardly any experience to play for them; their options were limited, and they desperately needed the exposure, and the money that Lawless offered certainly wouldn’t have hurt, either. 

Maka considered Soul and Blackstar’s argument with a thin-lipped expression, eyebrows drawn downwards. “That isn’t a bad idea,” she admitted begrudgingly, “if that was all you idiots planned on doing.”

“What, do you not think we can be good?” Soul sat beside Maka once more as they found themselves in her apartment yet again, with his feet propped up on the coffee table. Maka huffed and shoved at his ankles with what appeared to be a surprising amount of force. He made an aggravated face but otherwise kept his feet on the ground, sneakers and all. 

She rubbed at the bridge of her nose and settled into the couch. “I don’t trust you,” she said, and the annoyance dripping from her voice could have drowned Blackstar if he let it. He was busy rummaging through the Albarn refrigerator and contemplated taking one of Spirit’s beers. They were cheap, but Blackstar wasn’t yet twenty-one, so he couldn’t really complain. 

As if being able to sense Blackstar’s intentions, Maka piped up. “And don’t even think about swiping some of Papa’s alcohol, Blackstar! Last time you did it, I was the one who had to hear all about it.”

Damn! Blackstar was pretty sure that girl had to be some kind of psychic. Maybe it just came from having known Blackstar since they were both children, but it still creeped him out whenever she managed to guess what he was thinking or what he was about to do. Her back was even still towards him as she spoke. He liked to imagine that she had eyes in the back of her head that relayed what they saw to her. He groaned loud enough for the people living across from Maka to hear and decided to claim a soda from the fridge, instead. He popped open the tab with a hiss and sauntered back into the kitchen, his other hand landing loosely in his pocket. 

“Hey, Blackstar,” Soul spoke up, having completely interrupted whatever it was that Maka had been saying. She glared at him but offered little in the way of a rebuttal. “Where’s Tsubaki, anyway?”

“Studyin’,” Blackstar replied after taking a gulp of carbonated soda. “She’s got a big test coming up, I think. Totally lame.”

“Shut up,” Maka scolded, reaching out to whack his leg with her hand. Her attempt landed, and even through his jeans Blackstar could feel the sting. “Don’t be a jerk just because she’s taking her classes seriously, which is something you bozos never did. College is hard.”

“I was kidding!” Blackstar backed away from Maka and flopped into the recliner as if it were his own. “That didn’t hurt, by the way.”

“Sure,” she said without believing a word of it. Her attention turned back to Soul, whose mind seemed to be a million miles away. Blackstar took another generous drink from his soda can. “I just don’t want you guys getting into trouble, that’s all. That’s the last thing you both need.” Soul pursed his lips and didn’t look in her direction. Blackstar’s eyes landed on the rim of his can and focused there, refusing to glance her way. It was annoying, but she was right– and by the confidence in her voice, she knew it, too. While Soul might not have ever been thrown in juvie, unlike Blackstar, his record was far from clean. Both young men had been in their fair share of scraps, accumulating more trouble and problems than most their age, and it was never easy on Maka to see two of her closest friends find themselves in precarious situations. But Blackstar hadn’t been behind bars since he was sixteen years old and had no intention of finding himself back in that position anytime soon. 

“You worry too much,” he mostly joked, finishing his drink in two more large gulps. He didn’t normally drink soda; many of the drinks he had in his apartment consisted of electrolyte-replenishing sports beverages, tea bags, or water. It was a nice change of flavor, but he doubted he would bother drinking too much more of it. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and flashed Maka a large grin, all teeth and wrinkled nose. “Besides, Soul and I will be on our best behavior. Won’t we?”

Soul’s eyes reached towards the sky as he appeared to contemplate Blackstar’s question. He ignored Maka’s glower and hummed.

“I can try.” Was what he settled on, to which Maka simply huffed. By now, she had learned not to take Soul and Blackstar’s obstinance too seriously. Nevertheless, she remained visibly uneasy, with shoulders drawn up to her ears and fingers twitching. She hugged her arms across her chest.

Tightly, she replied, “If you boys get into trouble, Tsubaki and I will never let you hear the end of it. You know that, right?”

Soul scoffed, but a smile was threatening to tilt the corners of his lips upwards. “Yeah, yeah. We hear you.” He threw an arm over the back of the couch comfortably. “All we’re gonna do is head to the club, maybe order some drinks, and see what makes this band so great. Get a feel for their vibes and what this place is lookin’ for, s’all.”

“Order some drinks?” Maka parroted. “You mean, as long as they’re non-alcoholic.”

Soul raised a single shoulder up in a noncommittal shrug. “Depends on if they card or not,” he said lazily. Maka rolled her eyes, but most likely knew she probably should have suspected such a response by now. 

“Or if they notice any of their product missing,” Blackstar added with a familiar glint of mischief twinkling in his green eyes. Soul sent him an affirmative smirk. Maka shook her head, but couldn’t hide the amusement from trickling into her features. 

“Oh, yeah,” she drawled, “that will definitely keep you two out of trouble for sure.”

Blackstar chuckled, the sound light and airy and without worry. “Well,” he started with a lopsided smile, “if I get thrown in the slammer for the third time in my life, I know exactly who to call.” 

The ride to Lawless was electric, with Blackstar noticing the excited tension dancing beneath his skin. He couldn’t move enough or speak quickly enough to get all of his energy out, and it was making him feel like every muscle in his body was wound too tightly and would eventually just burst and take the rest of him with them. By Soul’s own restlessness, he was most likely feeling the same. His fingers tapped anxiously at the steering wheel with no real rhythm and his eyes skirted from the windshield, to his rearview, to the side mirrors, to the dash, and back to the windshield without ever seeming to find a comfortable place to settle. 

Blackstar was in no place to judge as his hands wouldn’t stop moving through the pieces of his hair that, he thought absently, really needed to be redyed. He pulled at his clothes, picked at his nails, and drummed on his biceps. Anything to hopefully release some of his nervous, pent-up energy.

If someone asked Blackstar how long the ride took, he might’ve said maybe four hours. It certainly felt that way, but it could have also been four minutes. He couldn’t be certain, but one thing was true without a shadow of a doubt in his mind; this place was packed, and he wasn’t entirely sure why, but that had not been what he was expecting. 

“Any of the places we’ve ever played been this busy?” He asked Soul as the other squinted into the darkness of the night ahead of him, even through his headlights. Soul grunted but offered little else in the way of a response, shoulders forward and back arched as he scanned the crowd of disorganized cars and drunk people slumped against one another. His knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, and the only other light that illuminated their surroundings were flashing purples and blues from the windows of the club. Blackstar could feel the bass pounding against his temples from the band and the muffled sounds of the drums and guitar were like lightning straight into his veins. He couldn’t make out much, but they sounded decent. They were definitely loud and had drawn in a sizable crowd. Still, it wasn’t enough to impress such a big guy like him. He needed to see them in action. 

“Dude, hurry up and park already,” Blackstar groused impatiently. “Their set is gonna be done by the time you find a spot.”

“Shut up,” Soul responded, and while his voice was definitely tight with frustration, it was clear that any bite wasn’t severely directed towards Blackstar. His lips had pulled back from his teeth, and Blackstar noted not for the first time how sharp his canines were. He used to joke about Soul looking like a rabid dog when they were younger, which was a lot friendlier than what some of the bullies of their youth tried to nickname him. They never got very far, luckily; the boys knew how to handle themselves, and how to stick up for each other. 

“Damn, there’s a lot of people.” He remarked as he looked out over the sea of cars and bodies and motorcycles. Blackstar leaned forward to get a better look and abandoned his seatbelt. Everywhere he looked, there were individuals leaning against walls or vehicles, and it became a conscious effort not to let his jaw hang slack. The building was also larger than Blackstar had anticipated, appearing much bigger than in the pictures Maka had managed to dig up. It stood amidst an otherwise clear plot of land, with train tracks several feet down the road from the building's entrance and trees making up a sparse forest in the back. The outside was decorated with string lights that radiated a delicate pink hue, more posters, and signs that Blackstar couldn’t make out from his place in the passenger's seat. The only sign that he could read was the obnoxious, brightly backlit advertisement near the front door that read, “PERFORMING TONIGHT: PERFECT BALANCE” in all capital letters. Blackstar could feel himself begin to seethe and thought that if Soul didn’t pull over soon, he would just jump out of the car and march up to the front door by himself.

It didn’t have to come to that, however, as Soul managed to navigate through stumbling people wearing dark, ripped clothing and found a place to park next to a couple of motorcycles, right below a long, outstretched tree branch that reminded Blackstar of a withered old hand. Soul grunted as he put the car in park with a slight lurch. 

“I hate parking under trees,” he complained without looking in Blackstar’s direction, “no branches better fall and scratch up my baby.”

Blackstar snorted and was pleased that he could still find some humor in this situation. “Yeah,” he said while already opening his car door, “that’s our biggest worry right now.” He was stepping onto the grass before Soul even had a chance to reply. It was a little odd to Blackstar that this place didn’t really have a parking lot, but they had bike racks and designated areas for cars, but most of the manmade lines dividing where the cars should be aligned have long since been disregarded. He slammed the passenger door closed and heard Soul close his own door and lock up. He ignored his friend’s angry shout of, “Hey, watch how hard you close that door, don’t make me kick your ass,” and began marching towards the front. 

The entrance to the building was a single open door with a man standing within the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He heard more than saw Soul jog to catch up beside him. An outstretched arm made his steps stutter, and he turned to glare at his friend.

“What are you doin’, man?” Blackstar asked, feeling his temper begin to rise like a boiling kettle. 

Soul looked ahead at the guard, sizing him up and squinting to possibly see the crowd of people that mingled and drank and danced behind him. He continued looking forward without meeting Blackstar’s gaze. “I just think it’d be a good idea for us both to take a deep breath.” His arm remained outstretched in front of Blackstar’s chest. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew Soul was right to stop him. It was clear that he was more than ready to throw himself into the club, emotions high, and while that might have been cathartic for a moment, he doubted it would get them very far. They had promised Maka that they would refrain from getting themselves in trouble and right now, all Blackstar wanted to do was stomp up on stage and strangle whatever punk had taken their gig from them.

Begrudgingly, Blackstar forced his shoulders to relax, unclenched his jaw, and flexed his fists. There was still a tightness constricting his chest, but after a couple of deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth, his head felt noticeably clearer. “Yeah,” he grumbled unhappily, “I get it. Doesn’t mean I like it, though.”

“Me neither,” Soul said honestly. He lowered his arm, but the tenseness of his muscles was not lost on Blackstar. 

“Maybe if we’re lucky,” Blackstar began with a grin, “we’ll catch ‘em after their set and beat the shit out of them. It’s dark enough, and I can be like a ninja if I really want. We could leave those losers propped up against a tree or something.” He believed himself to mostly be joking. Soul huffed a humorless laugh.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and Blackstar couldn’t quite see in the darkness, but it looked like he had scrunched up his face. It might have been in the hopes of appearing intimidating, but it just looked to Blackstar as if he had just tasted something sour. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Fine by me.”

The boys sauntered up to who Blackstar assumed to be the security guard, even though he was scrawnier than any bouncer that the drummer had seen before. In fact, he was kind of the exact opposite of what Blackstar had seen from any guard in the past. Normally, he was met with tall, balding men, with broad shoulders and a permanent sneer etched into their features, but the man blocking their path was thin, with long, washed out hair and a toothpick dangling between clenched teeth. Upon closer inspection, his torso was noticeably muscled, and Blackstar could see the defined shape of his arms beneath his long sleeves, but it was still difficult to imagine him kicking out rowdy patrons. 

He was in all black, with a name tag that simply read “Mifune” in neatly printed letters. His voice was soft, almost tired, but stern as he told the boys, “I’m gonna need to see some ID. You’ve gotta be at least eighteen to enter, and twenty-one to drink at the bar. There’s also a ten-dollar entry fee.”

“Ten bucks?” Blackstar yelled incredulously. He had maybe three dollars to his name until his next paycheck from Sid. At least he brought his wallet despite his lack of funds so he could show some identification, but his face remained pale from the sudden knowledge. He hadn't been expecting a fee. None of the places they had played for in the past made people pay just to get in. “For what? To see this shitty band?” His anger was returning to his chest like a familiar friend, and he could feel the tips of his fingers begin to itch with the desire to hit the nearest blunt object he could find. 

Mifune’s eyes narrowed, which only worked to spark Blackstar’s growing frustration. Who did this twig think he was, anyway? Did he think he could take on Blackstar? 

“Don’t make this difficult,” he said and uncrossed his arms to hook his thumbs in his pockets. “I don’t like fighting with kids.” 

“And I don’t like fighting with smartass pricks who think they’re better than me, but here we are.” Blackstar didn’t have a chance to see the change in Mifune’s expression before Soul’s grip on his arm grabbed his attention. He was yanked to the side abruptly as Soul growled at him beneath his breath, patience wearing thin.

“I can pay for you, dude,” he said through a tight jaw. “I’d like to give Mr. Cool Man here shit just as much as the next guy, but what if he would have some say in whether we get to ever perform here or not? Use your head for once.” 

Blackstar yanked his arm from Soul’s grasp and rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he mumbled, “but I’m paying you back. And I still don’t like this guy. It feels like he’s looking down on me or somethin’.”

“I’m right here.” Mifune toyed with the end of his toothpick. Blackstar mustered as much animosity into his eyes as he could and shot a nasty expression in his direction, but Mifune was unphased. Soul pulled out his wallet, fished out a twenty dollar bill, and handed it along with his driver's license to Mifune, who accepted it quickly. After giving it a thorough examination, he handed it back to Soul and extended a hand towards Blackstar, palm upwards. 

“Your turn.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t rush me.” Blackstar slapped his government ID into Mifune’s hand with excessive force, but the security guard paid him no mind. He looked it over a couple of seconds longer than he had for Soul’s, and eventually handed it back. Blackstar swiped it from Mifune’s hand aggressively and shoved it back into his pocket, face twisted in annoyance all the while. 

He prided himself on keeping his temper in check long enough for Mifune to draw a thick black “X” on the back of his hand since he was still under the legal drinking age. Soul received the same treatment and looked bored out of his mind, but Blackstar knew better. His eyebrows were pinched, his gait unsteady and the edges of his mouth creased in anticipation. He was growing just as irritated as Blackstar; he just did a better job of exuding a cooler exterior than the other, but Blackstar didn’t mind. He liked being an open book. If people couldn’t accept him at his loudest and bounciest, then they simply didn’t deserve to be in the presence of a god. 

“Alright, you two are free to go in. Just…” Mifune's eyes shifted to Blackstar, “don’t cause any trouble.”

Blackstar opened his mouth to call Mifune out of his blatant bias, but Soul tugging on his arm forced him to reconsider. He let himself be dragged into the club, but not without putting all of his weight into bumping his shoulder into Mifune’s as he entered. The older man didn’t budge, but it still gave Blackstar some satisfaction. 

The thought briefly crossed Blackstar’s mind to scope out the place and maybe find a couple of empty seats at the bar and uncover exactly how lenient the bartender was with handing out drinks, but every idea fell out of his brain as soon as he was within clear earshot of the band performing. Immediately, he was taken aback by their sound. Even if he might not be able to admit it out loud, there was no denying that this group was good. The singer sounded like a man, and his voice was deep but velvety, with every note striking straight into Blackstar’s chest and making itself comfortable. His voice was hauntingly majestic, and every word felt like it was pulling Blackstar closer and closer to its alluring lull. He couldn't find it in himself to glance up at the stage just yet, instead studying Soul's body language. He must have been experiencing the same phenomena because his body looked impossibly rigid, eyes wide and pointed teeth glinting between parted lips. 

“Blackstar,” he said with a strained breath. The blue-haired man had to practically press his side right into his friend just to hear him. He still hadn’t been able to examine the band yet, his heart quickening every time he was about to dare a glance in their direction, as if even perceiving them was strictly taboo. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his jeans and continued examining his friend's horrified expression with his own.

“What?” He yelled, probably louder than was necessary even with the band belting out every note. “Spit it out!”

Soul’s jaw worked without sound before he turned his head slightly in Blackstar’s direction, his eyes still glued straight ahead of him to the stage. “Isn’t that your boyfriend?”

“My what?” Blackstar finally followed Soul’s line of sight, and after forcing himself to focus on the figures moving on stage, the wind was promptly knocked out of him. Like a swift punch, it felt like his stomach dropped to the floor as his mouth ran dry and he blanched, for once finding himself speechless. Understanding quickly dawned on him as his blood turned to ice in his veins. On stage, gripping the microphone stand with both hands, was none other than his gothic prince of mystery; the one who had captured his heart simply from the brief moment that Blackstar had seen him, when he showed up at Maka’s college to drive Crona home. Without waiting to see if Soul would follow, Blackstar began pushing past people on the dancefloor who were swaying or throwing their hands up in excitement over the music. 

Most of the people Blackstar shoved through only glared or threw out a disgruntled, “hey” or “excuse you”, and some were too lost in the music or their drinks to even notice as he walked shoulder first to squeeze into the crowd and as close to the stage as he could manage. With only three or four lines of people between himself and the stage, he was able to get a good picture of Perfect Balance.

As if the betrayal he felt hadn’t run deep enough, he spotted Crona playing the bass to the singer’s left. He wondered if Maka knew about her friend being here, and if so, why she hadn’t mentioned it sooner? Upon closer inspection, Blackstar considered the band’s interesting setup; most bands, Death Scythe included, would place their singer in the middle and slightly to the front of the other bandmates, who stood a few paces behind. Perfect Balance, however, had the bassist and guitar player on an equal field as the singer, with the drums right behind him. He also noted with growing annoyance that they were all wearing matching outfits; or, at least, outfits that shared the same theme. And dammit because Death the Kid (it was impossible for Blackstar to forget a name like that) looked really, really good in his. 

They looked like the poster group for a Victorian-gothic rock band. Kid, as Blackstar was told that most people called him, was in a flowy and puffy white shirt that was almost see-through, with a tight black corset vest around his middle. Two white stripes ran down each side of the corset, and a glittering skull bolo tie hung from his collar. His black pants flared at the ankles and chunky, sleek black boots without any laces peaked out from the bottom. His nails were painted black and he had several rings on both fingers that flashed as he flailed his hands and used the microphone as a prop. His makeup was dark and smokey and perfect looking and it made Blackstar’s fists ball up at his sides. Crona, as well as the guitarist with long dirty blonde hair, and the drummer with short, lighter hair all wore variations of the all black and white outfit. It was pretentious and over the top and made bile rise up in the back of Blackstar’s throat. 

Death the Kid let out a practiced, guttural yell that gave Blackstar goosebumps. He rubbed at his bare arms to get rid of them, since the idea alone that the enemy could have such an effect on his body was enough to make him want to throw up. He decided to blame the chill that started in the nape of his neck and trailed down his entire back on the fact that the door to the club remained open and let in the brisk night air that clung to his exposed skin. Blaming Mifune in particular helped take some of the chill out. 

He was distinctly aware of other patrons trying to shove past him or move him out of the way, all pointed elbows and sharp shoulders, but he refused to budge. His body became like an immovable statue that was carefully fixed in place. He wasn’t even sure if he was blinking, his gaze completely and utterly entranced by the movements of the performers on stage. Kid’s attractiveness could not be understated in Blackstar’s humble opinion, but it was also clear that the entire group knew how to compose themselves in front of a crowd. Even Crona, who appeared so meek and anxious when Blackstar had first met them, held an air of confidence that, while not quite measuring up to the other band members’ energy, was not without its own finesse. They held their head up but didn’t meet any of the audience’s eyes, instead shifting their glances from the ceiling, to the back wall, and down to the bass guitar swinging back and forth in their arms. 

He was completely transfixed and was quickly losing himself in their sound, but at a particularly hard shove against his side, Blackstar swiveled his glare and readied himself to throw a curse at the aggressive club-goer, but the familiar wisp of white hair made Blackstar bite his tongue. In the midst of pushing himself near to the front and taking in the group’s performance like a sponge absorbing water, Blackstar had almost forgotten that he hadn't come here alone. Soul opened his mouth and said something in Blackstar’s direction, but he couldn’t make out what the other had said; his hearing was dedicated only to the smooth rumbling and electric complexity of Perfect Balance’s music, from the singer's delicate shifting of octaves to the other instruments harmonizing with one another. Blackstar shook his head, resisting the tempting urge to squeeze his eyes shut, and pulled some breath back into his lungs. 

“Huh?” He asked gracefully. Soul rolled his eyes but leaned in closer. Blackstar thought about telling him that their proximity wasn’t the issue, that it felt like he simply couldn’t force his attention or his hearing anywhere else but the stage. The words never came, though. 

“I said it sucks, but they’re pretty good. Sound is solid, singer is talented. Can’t believe Crona is one of ‘em.”

“Think Maka knows?” Blackstar was still only half listening. Kid’s voice was like a witch casting a spell, and Blackstar was a hopeless victim, falling right into his trap. Soul’s lips pulled back in a scowl, but he shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said, and the distance in his eyes made Blackstar wonder if Perfect Balance had caught another helpless creature in its allure. “She would have told me.” 

Blackstar wasn’t entirely sure if he agreed with Soul, but remained silent for the time being. It seemed like the song filling their ears and infiltrating their minds was slowly coming to a close, with Kid’s voice quieting and the music beginning a steady decrescendo in even time between each instrument. As mesmerized as Blackstar was, his anger remained a faint buzz beneath his skin, itching to break through his pores and seep into anything and everyone it could. Soul was talking to the side of his head, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the band’s hold on him. Kid hit a high note that made Blackstar’s heart flip in his chest, and then the song was over. The drummer held up her sticks in both hands as Crona and the guitarist each held up one of their arms, displaying the picks in pinched fingers. Blackstar noted that the guitarist must have been left-handed because the way she was holding her guitar was Crona’s opposite. If one were to take a picture of the stage and fold it in half, aside from subtle differences in their attire and overall appearance, the image would have looked the exact same. Both of Kid’s hands gripped the microphone as it was placed back in its stand. 

Before Blackstar really had the chance to wonder if having “perfect balance” was this band’s gimmick to get recognized and be known for something (which wasn’t a terrible idea in theory), Kid spoke into the microphone. It was just as silky and painfully controlled as his singing, and the way Blackstar’s gut twisted at the sound only annoyed him further.

“Thank you, everyone,” Kid spoke to the crowd without even a hint of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were sparkling– well, they certainly looked to be from where Blackstar was standing. “We all appreciate your attendance greatly, though we are not naïve enough to think you all showed up simply for us.” At his attempt at being humbly charming, he finally cracked a small smile. Blackstar’s breath left him in a rush. “I encourage you all to enjoy some refreshments. Joe’s bartending style is simply unmatched. I personally recommend the strawberry daiquiri with light syrup.”

Soul snorted. “Figures he’d go for the fruity drink.”

Blackstar shushed him like a kid in a school library. He didn’t have to look at his friend to know he was rolling his eyes. 

“Do try not to miss us too much as we depart for now. You have all been wonderful! Our demo CDs and merchandise will be available for purchase upstairs. Thank you all and have a lovely night!” His hands detached from the microphone so he could offer his adoring fans two-handed waves of departure. Blackstar wasn’t certain if the band was finished with one particular set or if they were done for the night, but he still had more questions than answers bouncing around in his head. He was only distantly aware of the other bandmates setting aside their instruments or standing in order to follow Kid off of the stage, and it felt like his opportunity for impulsive actions was fading quickly. Soul might have begun to sense his urgency because a hand found its way onto Blackstar’s shoulder.

“Let’s get ‘em.” He said, and Blackstar was pleased that Soul wasn’t trying to play the role of his impulse control at this particular moment. Blackstar didn’t say a word but followed Soul’s lead as he set his sights on approaching Kid and his gang of traitors, throwing his weight into his side again as he maneuvered through the rest of the crowd who were milling about, hoping to possibly share a glance with one of the band members. There was a door just to the right of the stage that read “performers only” in white lettering, and a woman with short, sharply cut black hair and glasses stood in front of it with a sour expression as Kid, Crona, and the two girls descended the few stage steps. 

It was now or never as the woman unlocked the door and opened it for Perfect Balance to file in through. Thinking quickly, Blackstar shouted, “Hey! You! Death the Kid,” before his heart leaping into his throat made it too difficult to speak. The smaller of the two girls (the drummer, if Blackstar recalled correctly) was ushered in first, but Kid, who was on her heels, spun around quickly. His eyes, unnaturally golden and sparkling beneath the flashing luminescent lights of the club, found Blackstar’s and held his gaze. His expression twisted in confusion, but his hold was unwavering. His eyebrows were dark and thin and one disappeared into his hairline as it was quirked in suspicion. 

“Do I know you?” He asked, and Blackstar had to forcibly banish the thought that these were the first words they had ever shared with one another. He tried to remind himself that this wasn’t some bullshit fairytale romance– it was real life, and Kid had stolen something important from him. He would not forget that. He opened his mouth to respond, yet nothing more than a choked breath of air worked its way past, making his face flush. Luckily, Soul was quick to help him recover. 

“We’re friends with Crona,” he said. At the sound of their name, Crona turned their head and grimaced. Their face pulled like they had just been caught in the act of committing a heinous crime. Perhaps they might as well have been. Kid turned towards Crona, placing his hands on his hips, looking more intrigued than agitated. Blackstar watched him and silently counted it as a win that the band stopped to hear them out for this long without hiding away from strangers who could have just been crazed fans, for all that they knew. 

Kid hummed softly, causing an explosion of butterflies to erupt in the pits of Blackstar’s stomach. “Well,” he started and looked back over at Blackstar once again, “I’m glad to know that they have made acquaintances. Though,” his eyes narrowed, and the open interest shifted into something much colder, “I still don’t know what that has to do with me. How do you know my name?” He looked at Soul, then back to Blackstar. “Are you fans?” 

Soul barked a laugh that was all hard edges and malice. “Fans?” He spat like the taste of the word on his tongue made him ill. “Hell no we aren’t fans. We just wanted to see if you guys were worth all the hype, maybe see what it was that made it so you scoured a gig here. Aside from looking like a bunch of vampires, I don’t see what the big deal is.” 

Kid’s face hardened. His lips grew thin as they pressed into his teeth, and a cloud fell across his features. He looked like he wanted to offer a rebuttal, but the taller girl with long hair shoved his side. 

“Don’t listen to these assholes,” she said and looked over him to peek into the performers-only lounge. “They’re probably just jealous. Besides, Patty’s waiting for us. She’s gonna get her hands all over those little sandwiches, you know.”

As if Soul and Blackstar weren’t even there, Kid looked at the girl and gave her what looked like an angry pout. “Liz,” he began, arms snaking to cross over his thin chest, “don’t even joke about that. You know the idea of her handling food with her unwashed hands that I am then supposed to eat will send me into a fit.”

“Better get in there, then.”

He sighed defeatedly but, to Blackstar’s surprise, did look up to face them. “I don’t know who you two are,” his eyes flicked between them both, “but whether you are Crona’s friends or not, I suggest that next time, you watch your tone.” 

“Or what?” The words tumbled from Blackstar’s mouth before he had a chance to catch them and juggle with the idea that they should be left behind. Nevertheless, they were out in the air now. He watched Kid visibly stiffen. He might not have been someone who was used to being challenged, but that was a special skill of Blackstar’s that he was more than willing to share. 

Kid’s eyes were stony as he responded, “Or I could have you removed from the premises. Or, if you desire another answer, I could remove you myself.” 

“You will be doing no such thing.” This time, it was the woman in the glasses who spoke up. She used her arm in an ushering movement towards the door, encouraging Kid and the others to enter. “The last thing your father wants is for you to get into a fight.” 

Blackstar noticed the way Kid’s shoulders hitched up towards his ears defensively, and it reminded him of a spoiled child getting scolded in front of his peers. If his own frustration wasn’t drumming through his ears like the blood rushing through his veins, he might have been able to find it in himself to laugh. Kid grumbled as he spoke, looking nowhere, “As if my father could find the time from his busy schedule to worry.” His eyes swiveled back to Blackstar and Soul, and the sharpness behind them froze Blackstar in place.

“Is that all that you wanted from me? To grab my attention after the show to express your distaste?”

Blackstar stiffened. Shit, he thought as he did his best to focus on Kid’s eyes without looking away. He wasn’t entirely sure what he had planned to do once he got this far. A nagging part of him almost wanted to get to know his mysterious man, who spoke like an academic far beyond his years, with stripes in his hair like that of which Blackstar had never seen before and a voice like silk. He had pale, smooth skin and a permanent glower and Blackstar wanted to grab him by the shoulders and learn everything that he could about what made him tick. The feeling was intense and new and a bit frightening. It was a sensation he had never felt before and was unsure how to navigate it. There was an inhuman quality to Death the Kid that pulled Blackstar in like the tide. The way that he conducted himself and his band, as if he was mostly human, but not quite, simply intrigued Blackstar even more. The moment stretched on before them, growing in an awkward thickness before he managed to find his voice buried deep within the recesses of his throat, forcing it forward with only mild difficulty.

“What’s up with the stripes in your hair?”

“Oh, boy,” The older girl—Liz—groaned into her hand. By the way in which Kid’s face contorted, Blackstar might as well have slapped him. His cheeks flushed brightly and his hands flew to his hair as if adjusting the strands would move the stripes away with them. His jaw slackened and his nose crinkled, but no words came forth. He looked aghast as he huffed and dropped his hands to his sides.

“Crona, deal with your friends. I have no interest in furthering this discussion.”

“Oh! Uh, right.” Crona looked as if they wished they could have been anywhere but in the middle of the conversation, eyebrows drawing downwards anxiously. “I’m really, really sorry,” they said as they started rubbing away at their arm, movements quick and rigid. “But I think that, uhm, maybe you guys should leave.”

Soul took a single step closer, which made Crona stumble and find their footing by taking a step back. Death the Kid hadn’t moved, and Blackstar knew this to be true because he was unable to take his eyes off of him. Soul’s hand extended like he wanted to take Crona by the arm, but they jerked back in response and fell against Liz’s side. Liz was quick to catch Crona by the shoulders and steady their posture, shooting annoyed daggers at Soul all the while.

“Perhaps I should call security and have this conversation ended immediately,” Azusa said as she leaned a hand towards Crona, who shook their head and stood up straight with Liz’s guidance.

Kid raised his chin. “That isn’t such a bad idea.”

“No, wait!” Blackstar dug around in his pockets for items he knew he didn’t have. A pen, maybe a pencil, some notecards—anything that he could scrounge up to scribble his number down and offer it to Kid. He wasn’t sure why the sudden urge struck, and while he might not have liked the guy, there was no way their first meeting was going to end with Blackstar getting thrown out on his ass. “We’re actually in a band, too.”

“Is that so.” It wasn’t a question; Kid’s voice was a sharpened dagger that could very well cut the very air Blackstar was breathing.

“Yeah, it is. We auditioned for this gig too, and when we didn’t get it, we wanted to see why.”

“And you thought harassing the winning band would endear you to the club? Did you think you could scare us away from returning?”

“No!” Blackstar flapped his hands in front of him, hoping to somehow conjure the right words and pull them from the atmosphere. “No. Well, I mean, maybe. I don’t really know what we were tryin’ to do, aside from see what made you guys so special in the first place.”

“Which I still don’t get.” Soul had his hands hidden in his pants pocket in what Blackstar figured was another attempt at looking cool and unphased.

Kid scoffed, but Blackstar noted with only mild egoism that he hadn’t taken his eyes off him yet.

“And what conclusions, pray tell, have you come to?”

Blackstar smirked and shuffled forward so he was standing in front of Soul, shifting any and all focus onto him, just how he liked it. Stars were made to shine, after all.

“I dunno yet, but I’d sure like to find out. Do you want my number?”

“Dude!”

Blackstar ignored his friend’s annoyed outcry, looking Kid up and down while making a big show of doing so. The heat returned to Kid’s cheeks with a vengeance, and Blackstar thought about how it even dusted the tops of his ears. Had he ever noticed that on anyone else before?

“Maybe we could collaborate sometime. You’ve got skill. Whaddya say?”

“What do I say?” Kid still looked completely taken aback. If he was being honest, Blackstar couldn’t really blame him. Nevertheless, he meant what he said, regardless of how sudden it came across. He might not be sure if he really wanted to work with Kid on music, but he couldn’t deny his deep fascination with the strange man. He dressed like someone who didn’t get enough sunlight and had too much money, even when picking up Crona from the university—that of which his father apparently owned and operated, even though he did not attend. Hardly anyone knew anything about him, aside from what truth could be gleaned from various rumors. He was growing into an impossible enigma of a person in Blackstar’s mind who would be a challenge to understand.

If there was one thing that Blackstar enjoyed, it was a challenge. 

“What do I say,” Kid repeated, this time with much less edge to his tone. Could It be possible that Blackstar had somehow gotten through to him? The singer took a step closer, and it took all of Blackstar’s resolve not to pay the tremble in his knees any attention. Kid inched even closer still, and though there was still about a foot between them, Blackstar could smell the faint hint of mint and cologne that still hung onto Kid’s clothing. He was suddenly acutely aware of his own scent and prayed his quick swiping of deodorant had held up throughout the night.

“I think…” Kid’s voice trailed off softly, like an invitation. Blackstar refrained from leaning in any closer for fear that his breath would get stolen away from him.

“I think that Azusa should call security and have you escorted out of here before you even have time to say ‘symmetry’.”

“I won’t have time to say what?”

Azusa spoke into her earpiece before Blackstar could get his answer, “Security, I’m going to need some help down here. Two young men won’t stop harassing my singer.” 

“What?” Blackstar repeated incredulously. It took no time at all for Kid’s wishes to come true. Azusa had barely finished her sentence before footsteps sounded behind him, and Blackstar didn’t even have time to process what was happening when a pair of hands that could have been the size of baseball gloves encircled his biceps. He was lifted with remarkable ease into the air, his feet kicking and dangling uselessly above the ground. The man that picked him up was the type that Blackstar was used to seeing whenever he entered or played for clubs in the past, all scowls and muscles. Soul was in no better condition, helpless while another guard picked him up just as easily. Blackstar looked down and as handsome as Kid was, seeing him smirk up at Blackstar made the drummer want to wipe it off his stupid, not charming in the slightest, smug little face. 

Soul struggled fruitlessly beside Blackstar, shouting expletives and angrily barking out, “Let me go, damn idiot!” Blackstar squirmed but couldn’t help thinking embarrassingly about how he had never given out his number, nor had he been able to receive Kid’s. 

Hell, hadn’t he promised Maka that he would be good and not get himself into trouble? Would this reflect poorly when Death Scythe auditioned again in a month? His heart hammered in his chest for reasons completely unrelated to being hoisted in the air above a crowd. He had almost forgotten about all of the other patrons who could ogle in shock at the display, and who did so blatantly, with wide eyes and open mouths. Blackstar hoped that none of the phones that were now pointing at him with their glaring cameras were capturing his face. If Sid found out about what happened at the club, he would be in more trouble than he knew how to handle. He wasn’t sure if his wrath or Maka’s would be worse, though he would have plenty of time to compare the two. He couldn’t see a future that didn’t involve a thorough ass-kicking from both parties.

Blackstar tried aggravatingly to crane his neck in a futile attempt to spare another look behind him at Kid before he was tossed out, but he could only catch a quick glimpse of black and white hair before the club in its entirety left his vision and became replaced with the outside walls and the lights that decorated its windows. As silly as it was, a fleeting thought passed Blackstar’s mind that was simply, ‘I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye'.

Suddenly, the hold on him (that was sure to leave a bruise or two) released, and he was flying briefly through the air before crashing down on the steps that led up to the front door. It wasn’t a particularly hard or long fall, but it was enough to make Blackstar’s eyes shake in his head. A throbbing pain exploded across his knees where he endured the brunt of the impact and he hissed. His hands shot out to brace himself against the solid ground and he could feel the concrete of the steps stinging into his palms. Soul tumbled right beside him only a few seconds after with only a bit more grace.

“Blackstar…” His voice was strained as his head lolled to one side, eyes pinched closed. He rubbed at his forehead and sat back against his heels. 

“Maka is going to fucking kill us.” 

Blackstar’s stomach recoiled like he had just eaten an especially foul bite of food. He couldn’t meet Soul’s expression as he forced his head up, doing his best to ignore the biting soreness spreading from his hands and radiating up to his forearms. He could have received a new record for disappointing a shocking number of people in just one night. Maka and Sid were going to be furious, and Tsubaki would turn those deep, sad brown eyes on him that never failed to make him feel like he was twelve years old. He had also managed to disappoint himself in the process. While he might have accomplished what it was he had initially set out to do, he had failed to really learn anything new about Death the Kid, or his band as a whole in the way that he had begun to hope. 

“I thought I told you kids not to get into any trouble.”

Blackstar spun around so quickly that a wave of dizziness rocketed into his chest. Mifune stood leaning against the doorway, still toying with that ridiculous toothpick that dangled from his downturned lips. Blackstar thought it made him look like a complete tool. His long, black sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, probably to better show off how sculpted his arms were. 

“Go on,” he said in a voice as tired as his eyes. “I told you, I don’t like fighting with kids.” 

For a moment, Blackstar considered taking out his frustrations of the night on this asshole who seemed to think he was so much better than him, but Soul’s pained grunt as he stood broke Blackstar from his thoughts. 

“We’re goin’, we’re goin’,” Soul raised himself up and dusted any grass or dirt from his legs. Did his pants always have holes ripped in the knees? 

“This place is totally uncool, anyway. C’mon, Blackstar.” He held his hand out for his friend to take, which Blackstar accepted freely. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he wasn’t sure if he would have been able to stand up without the aid. His unsteady balance and overall aching body didn’t stop him from throwing a heated glare over his shoulder one final time toward Mifune, even sticking his tongue out and narrowing his eyes so the guard could feel the full effect of Blackstar’s distaste. He looked away when Soul nudged him forward, and with only a slight limp, they made the trek back to Soul’s car. It had been blessed with a few loose twigs and leaves, much to Soul’s grumpy dismay, but was vastly unharmed otherwise. Soul threw open the driver’s side door like he couldn’t get home fast enough. Blackstar slid in the passenger’s side easily, without shutting his own door. Soul’s wrist stuttered above the ignition as he waited for Blackstar to close his door, keys dangling between his fingers. 

Blackstar stared straight ahead through the windshield with one leg positioned on the ground outside of the car. “You got anything to write on?” 

“Not if you’re gonna use it the way I think you’re gonna use it.”

That made Blackstar laugh. He wouldn't even try to deny the plans he was concocting from Soul, knowing full well that the other would see right through him, anyway. There was little use in trying to hide anything from him after all these years. 

“So that’s a yes?” 

“It’s more of a ‘you’re an idiot’, but whatever. Check the glove compartment.” Soul used his head to gesture to the compartment above Blackstar’s knee. Blackstar opened it and rummaged around, eventually finding a pen that Soul had probably taken from a bank somewhere, and an old gas station receipt. And they say romance is dead.

He scribbled his phone number on the back of the receipt and signed it as if he were giving an autograph, accentuating his signature with a flourish. Then, in smaller handwriting off to the side, he wrote “P.S. sorry 4 asking abt ur hair i think its badass”. Before he could change his mind, cross out what he had written or completely crumple the paper up and throw it away, he stepped out of Soul’s car with only a quick, “be right back” tossed behind him as he departed.

He knew exactly what kind of car to look for. It had been driving around his brain in circles ever since he had spotted it that day at Maka’s school. That black, old-school Chevy Impala could belong to none other than someone who dressed in monochrome and had a legal name like “Death the Kid”. Blackstar just hoped that he had happened to be the one driving when they came to get set up for their show. Quietly, stealthily, with the silent prowess of a trained assassin, Blackstar hugged the club walls and snaked his way to the back, where the only meager parking lot laid out before him.

There were only four cars in the dilapidated lot, and Blackstar thanked the gods above that Kid must have been chauffeuring that day, because, amidst the modern white and silver cars, one sleek, outdated but well-kept black vehicle blended into the darkness of the night. Blackstar scanned his surroundings to be certain he was alone before jogging over to the car. He needed to get in and get out, but not before taking a quick peek inside. The interior looked like it could have been just as dark as the exterior, so even with his hands cupped over his eyes and his nose practically pressed into the window, he couldn’t make out much. 

Its cleanliness could not be understated, without even a speck of trash or dirt anywhere to be seen. It was similar to Soul’s in that way since he treated his car like his baby, but even then, he was still no stranger to the occasional fast-food bag thrown into the backseat or water bottle left in the cupholders. There was a thick black necklace with a pendant that Blackstar couldn’t make out dangling from the rearview mirror, as well as a thin, oversized skull that might have been an air freshener. Figures. He pulled himself away from the window and smoothed out the receipt, turning it over and examining what he had written one final time before tucking it beneath one of the windshield wipers. 

As he went around the back of the car in the hopes of further concealing himself, just on the off chance that anyone would come snooping, he took a brief glance at Kid’s license plate. He noted with growing amusement that the covering for the plate was black, unsurprisingly, with four white skulls in each corner. He shouldn’t have expected anything less. Chuckling, he jogged across the parking lot and back to Soul’s car. The guitarist had since closed the door on him, which Blackstar opened cheekily and threw himself back into the passenger seat for the second time.

Blackstar took no time in buckling his seatbelt and leaning his head back against the headrest. That must have been a signal enough for Soul because he was quickly starting up the car and peeling out of the grass and down the road. He didn’t even slow as his tires bumped and skidded across the train tracks. Maybe he wanted to get out of there even more than Blackstar did, which was a distinct possibility. Every mile, every second that they were on the road was more distance between him and the singer with eyes so golden brown that they could have been yellow. As if reading his thoughts, Soul cleared his throat and spoke up.

“So, do you think your emo angel of music is gonna call you back? If you ask me, the guy kind of seemed like a dick.” 

Blackstar hummed and picked at his nails. “How’d you know I wrote down my number?”

“Please,” Soul chuckled, but it was a weak sound. “I know you. Besides, not like you had the chance to give it to him earlier. I’m gonna be real with you, man. I don’t see the appeal. But I’m not gonna stop you from making an ass of yourself. I probably couldn’t even if I tried.”

“It’s not like I’m expecting to get a date from the guy,” Blackstar took a quick glance at Soul and then turned his attention to the window to watch the trees roll past him one by one, following the stars that hung above his head in the night sky. In truth, he wasn’t completely sure what he expected to gain from giving a man who was still ostensibly a stranger to him his phone number. If he was being completely honest, he kind of just wanted to see where this would go. Would Kid actually end up texting him, and if so, what would he say? Blackstar could practically see the message staring back at him now, with Kid’s voice dancing in his ears, ‘Leave me alone, handsome stranger.’ 

Okay, so maybe the idea of Kid’s voice calling him “handsome” in any capacity made his heart flutter so aggressively it felt like it could fly right out of his throat, but he stilled himself and swallowed it back down.  

“‘Sides, I just think he’s… interesting. There’s a lot we don’t know about him. And if he’s cool enough for Crona, he’s cool enough for us, too. Right? We just gotta get to know him a little better.”

Soul didn’t take his eyes off the road, but the skepticism was etched into every feature lining his face. “Yeah,” he muttered disapprovingly. “Get to know him.”

Kid had told Liz that he was only going to tidy up the lounge, and at the time he believed that to be true. Alas, it had quickly devolved into him rearranging and organizing the entire room, from straightening the food displayed on the table, to completely moving the couch so it was in line with the rug and directly in the middle of two chairs on its opposite sides. The itch began in his fingers but quickly spread to his entire palm, and then to his head. He could scratch and scratch and scratch, but the only real relief came in the form of appeasing his compulsions. His father most likely would not have been pleased with his coping skills, but he had hardly spoken more than five words to the man in the past week. He had no room to speak about Kid’s wellbeing, as it were.

He ignored Liz’s overexaggerated sigh as he tilted the mirror (that of which he had picked up and reshelved so it hung approximately eight inches between the small dressers), took a step back to examine his work, and then tilted it slightly in the other direction. A healthy mixture of counseling and medication had helped him manage his OCD for years, but it was clear that some days were better than others. As much as he had enjoyed playing in front of the crowd, it was also an incredibly stressful night, and meeting Crona’s odd, brash friends hadn’t helped settle his already fragile nerves. He didn’t believe that a bit of straightening just to put his mind at ease and to satiate the burning fire of anxiety ringing in his ears was such a bad thing. When he had walked into the room, everything immediately seemed wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, and if his bandmates had to wait around for thirty extra minutes to snack and gather their things as he worked, he felt that was a sacrifice that they could all make.

As Kid continued to fuss over the exact placement of the throw pillows on the couch, Patty’s voice chimed in through the tightly wound ball of yarn that was his entangled thoughts. “That blue-haired guy was kinda funny, huh?” She kicked at the ground, which earned her an exasperated shooing motion from Kid who had just realigned and straightened the rug. She pouted and crossed her feet at her ankles but continued to push them back and forth with less force than before. 

“Funny looking, maybe,” Liz chuckled at her own joke and leaned back against the couch, ignoring Kid’s look of horror since he had just adjusted and fluffed the pillow she was so flippantly crushing into her side. “What’s his deal anyway, Crona? And his weird friend with the white hair, what’s up with him?” 

“Don’t put Crona on the spot like that. I doubt they even associate with those imbeciles that frequently.” Kid fixed his already pristine tie and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Crona sat looking mortified in one of the chairs that had been completely moved to Kid’s specifications. 

“Well, not, I mean—not too often,” they pulled at the flowing, white edges of their sleeves and refused to meet anyone’s eyes. “They’re more Maka’s friends than mine, they don’t even go to the same school that I do. I’ve only really talked to them a few times.” Their voice thickened, their trembling hands finding refuge in the fabric bunching up beneath their palms. “I don’t know what they were doing here.”

Patty whistled a soft, high-pitched sound and bobbed her head to her own tune. “D’ya know their names?”

“Let’s not even entertain the rest of this conversation, please.” 

“Why?” Liz teased, a harmless challenge playing into her tone and showing through her grin. “Don’t you wanna know the name of that guy that was totally hitting on you?”

Kid groaned but couldn’t fight the way his fingers fidgeted with one another. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he chastised, even as it fell flat. “He was just being obnoxious, that’s all. I hardly doubt he would show up to our performance as heated as he did just so he could flirt. Not that I would have the slightest interest, anyway.”

“I dunno,” Liz sang, which made Patty giggle beside her, “you seemed pretty flustered around him.” 

His steps faltered. This line of questioning was getting them nowhere, and the longer Kid stayed in this unfamiliar building, the worse he was going to feel. He could clean it from top to bottom and rearrange the furniture eight hundred times, but it still wouldn’t quite feel right to him; not when his brain was moving as quickly as it was. His only reprieve now would be to return home, where he knew that everything was neat and orderly and symmetrical. Everything there was perfectly controlled, and if he was lucky, his father would most likely still be at the school or in his office away from the house. Kid was seeing less and less of him these days, and was currently in the process of trying to make himself believe that he didn’t care. If anything, perhaps he was benefiting from his father's absence. He wasn’t sure in what way, necessarily, but telling himself that helped take some of the sting out, at least for the time being.

“If you all are quite finished, I have had a long night and would very much like to shower and return to my own bed. Azusa, if you would, please.”

At the mention of her name, Azusa offered a chaste, curt nod and made quick work of unlocking the back door of the lounge that would lead the others out into the parking lot and to their cars. Kid had never been a fan of driving, but his father had him taught at a very young age, and as much as it terrified him and as severe as his intrusive thoughts could become while he was on the road, he preferred to be in control of the situation if allowed. The intrusive thoughts of jerking the steering wheel and brutally injuring himself or those around him was an uphill battle that he had been battling for as long as he had been driving, with other various harmful thoughts plaguing his mind as far back as he could remember. They told him that everyone he cared about was dead, and they put images across his eyelids of harming them in gruesome, terrible ways that he would never, ever do in actuality. As difficult as they could be to navigate and as easily as he knew that they could drown him, they had become easier to manage as time went on. Being the one behind the wheel had been terrifying for many years, but it was slightly less terrifying than not being in control of the situation at all. 

If he could choose his mode of transportation, he much preferred simply riding his skateboard from place to place. However, carrying multiple people with heavy, complex instruments miles from his home required more than his board could offer, no matter how much he loved his dear Beelzebub. 

Kid walked out in front with Liz, Patty, and Crona trailing not far behind. Azusa stayed back a few steps to effectively lock up. Kid watched as she scanned the perimeter and internally reminded himself to remark on his god-aunt’s efficiency to his father. That man never gave his workers the credit they deserved, whether or not they were honorary family. He began walking to his car and thought about telling Azusa that he no longer required her supervision, but found he was unable to fool himself into thinking that he didn’t appreciate the company, even if the words that they exchanged were few and far between. It wasn’t until he spotted a white, crumpled paper flapping in the gentle breeze did he say much of anything.

“Did I get a ticket?” He gasped in abject terror and neared his car in hasty strides. He was the most careful driver he knew, and this particular parking spot (if one could call the poor excuse of a square with a sign stuck in the ground reading “STAFF” in front of it a parking place) was even designated specifically for him. If he acquired a parking ticket after convincing his father and therapist that he was fit to drive, he could kiss his driver's license goodbye for the next year. A shaking hand grasped the paper carefully, as if any wrong move would dissolve it between his fingers.

What he saw before him might have actually been worse than a fine. 

“Crona,” he started, voice as unsteady as his hands. “That blue-haired friend of yours… did his name happen to be Blackstar?”

“Oh, yeah,” they said hesitantly. “Why?”

Kid held the receipt with messily written numbers and a personalized note between two fingers, jaw tightening. 

“Because it would seem that he managed to give me his phone number, after all.”