Chapter Text
Yūta set down his brush with a sigh and leaned back in his chair. He hadn't anticipated the sheer amount of minuscule items that would need to be painted and glued in this miniature house.
He was only halfway through the instruction booklet, and his hands were already coated in glue and the various shades of shitty green and blue paint provided in the box. He'd lost count of how many small beads have stuck to his fingers instead of their proper spots and wound up flung to the other side of the room when he next moved his hands.
Thankfully, everything else in the room was tucked away behind glass doors — protected from the wrath of Yūta’s current project.
A faint buzzing tickled his eardrums, interrupting his time well spent staring at the small crack in the ceiling that had been there since the day he moved in. He feebly attempted to wave away the noise, but all his efforts were for naught, as it stubbornly persisted.
He grabbed the source of the annoyance — his rarely used cell phone — and brought it up to his ear.
He didn't even get through the meek greeting he could muster before the voice on the other end of the line barked, “Be ready in ten minutes.”
“F-For what?” Yūta sputtered, standing up from his worn work stool.
“You're coming to a concert with me!” The smile was plain in his best friend’s voice.
“I'm not going to a concert, Panda,” Yūta decreed with a relenting sigh, knowing anything he said would be insignificant in the face of such determination.
Panda had been Yūta’s best friend since their first year of high school. Back then, he was still known as Yaga Tomokazu and hadn't yet obtained the nickname that would slowly erode nearly every trace of his prior name.
“Yes, you are!” that booming voice proclaimed. “Death Painting just had their debut on ‘The Human Earthworm’, and I got them booked for a show tonight to celebrate.”
Death Painting was the band that Panda managed. Yūta heard about them every now and then when Panda boasted about how fast they climbed the ranks since he signed them on.
But…
“Do I even want to know what ‘The Human Earthworm’ is?”
“Eh, you don't need to worry about it.”
Yūta wondered if he should have been miffed about that quick dismissal of what he knew to be a very important question. He pondered the possibilities as he changed out of his sweats and into what he hoped was concert-appropriate clothing. He hadn’t been to a concert in years, and didn’t even know the genre of music that was playing that night.
Hopeful, he slipped on a simple black t-shirt and some jeans—a casual outfit that would allow him to melt into the background.
When Panda announced his arrival, Yūta heaved a weary sigh and left his apartment, making sure to give Tama, his cat, a good scratch behind the ears on his way out.
The drive to the venue was filled with Panda regaling the story of how his band was chosen to create the song they would be celebrating that night. Yūta kept his gaze focused on the city passing by in grey blurs as he wondered when the last time he and Panda hung out in person was.
Three weeks ago?
Longer?
They both were too busy to do much more than the occasional chat during Yūta’s breaks at work. Panda had his hands full managing this band, and the story was the same with the last. Albeit, that was in a different city with their living quarters much closer.
Panda’s life was just too full to inquire about the next miniature Yūta was building or how Tama knocked over the current Gundam before it could be safely placed in the glass cabinet. Yūta wouldn't want to take up more carefully delegated space than he needed to.
“Yuuuta~” Panda’s sing-song tone finally broke through the fog that had slowly drifted over Yūta’s senses.
Yūta jumped, a pathetic squeak slipping between his lips, and looked over at Panda — who had his door open.
“We made it,” Panda proclaimed before tossing a simple black lanyard at Yūta.
Slow fingers nearly allowed the thin yarn to slip through and fall into the depths between seat and console, but Yūta managed to get a grip on it at the last moment. He pulled up a thin plastic card with the word “CREW” in bright, white letters on the front.
“I’m not crew, though?” Yūta questioned as he slipped the lanyard over his head, regardless.
“You are when you’re with me,” Panda assured. “Plus, I need to get in early and make sure no one is breaking anything. I don’t feel like dealing with that invoice.”
Yūta frowned, but accepted his temporary status and left the car. His feet faltered, and he almost tripped over a rock when he saw the line wrapping around the building.
Mohawks, neon hair, boots elevating people inches in the air, and enough spikes to potentially kill someone greeted them as they walked up to the door. Yūta’s gaze flitted between staring at black lips, revealing silhouettes, and the angry expressions directed his way.
Everyone knew, they could probably smell how different he was—how he didn’t belong there. It took every ounce of strength in Yūta to maintain enough composure to make it past security and into the building.
How he wasn’t immediately scorned as an outcast and thrown onto the street could be anyone’s guess.
His ID was checked, and he was given a neon pink paper wristband before being ushered along with Panda to a room bathed in soft, warm lighting. The floor was concrete and looked to have quite a few mended cracks. The walls were metal and adorned with signs and decorations emitting their own bright colors — adding energy to an otherwise intimidating space.
There were already several people mingling around at the bar and a table in the corner where colorful t-shirts and jackets were pinned up on the wall. Thumping music rattled Yūta’s eardrums, and he wondered how anyone in there was managing to have a conversation. His hand darted out and pinched a hold of Panda’s leather jacket, trying to not get left behind as his friend marched up to the stage.
"Eh? Panda-san? What are you doing on this side of the stage?" a husky voice inquired.
Yūta peeked around Panda and saw three women standing on his other side.
The one looking a question at Panda had brunette hair that framed her face in a bob, and her eyes were ablaze in a way that said one glare aimed in Yuta's direction would kill him on the spot. One would think that having an outfit consisting mostly of leather would be fairly modest. Yet, somehow, there were enough cutouts and fishnet that left so little to the imagination that Yūta blushed right to his ears and forced himself to avert his gaze to the other two.
The woman in the middle was taller than the brunette, with feathery black locks that fell just past her shoulder. Her outfit was the simplest of the three, consisting only of a black tank top, pinstripe pants, and heavy boots.
The third woman had the most extravagant outfit of them all, as if she were a porcelain doll brought to life. Yūta wondered absentmindedly if that was one of those "lolita" looks he saw out and about sometimes. There were enough frills and lace that, despite the deep, dusky color, it gave the air of something cutesy and precious.
Yūta yelped when a hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
"It's because I brought my closest friend with me!" Panda boomed, bringing Yūta's attention back to the conversation.
The brunette was raking over Yūta with mahogany eyes. He couldn't help but squirm under the attention, though Panda's steady hand limited most of the movement.
"Were you his 'loving and adoring senpai', Panda-san?"
"Kugisaki-chan, we're the same age!" Panda emphasized the proclamation by shaking Yūta.
"Hah?!" the trio replied.
Before Yūta could react, he suddenly had a faceful of three scrutinizing gazes. His feet moved of their own accord, backing him up from the intense stares. It did nothing to save him, for they only followed intently until his back collided with something.
He whirled around and saw the young girl, who couldn't have been more than 15, that he just slammed into. She immediately bowed and yelled her apologies over the music.
Yūta attempted to refute, to explain that he was the one who wasn't paying attention, but she ran off to join her friends without another word.
Two people soon replaced her, and three more crowded behind them. Yūta's peripheral vision was soon flooded by the sea of people allowed entrance to the venue.
Yūta curled in on himself and retreated back to Panda's side. Thankfully, his best friend had distracted Kugisaki and the others by telling the story of how they became friends.
They were in the same class but sat on opposite sides of the room. Neither of them acknowledged the other's existence except for the occasional classroom cleanup. It wasn't until Panda had walked in at the end of the school day to witness four third years ganging up on Yūta that they said more than a few words to each other.
Yūta could still clearly recall, even almost twenty years later, the look on the third years' faces when they realized they were about to get their asses beat by the strongest freshman.
Inky darkness plunged Yūta out of the memories, and the shrieks around him forced his attention forward.
There was no barrier separating the roaring crowd from the stage—a stark difference from the gap enforced by metal bars and burly men Yūta had seen before. He couldn't help but wonder if it was even safe for there to be no protection for the band. What if the crowd got out of hand? Who was going to stop them from leaping onto the small wooden platform?
Yūta tried to keep himself as small as possible, to hopefully protect himself from getting swept up in the fray.
Electronic beats wove in through the screams, as if programmed to match the crowd's energy. Vibrant, blue light pulsed in tempo, revealing flashes of someone standing at the keyboard on the stage.
The brief glimpses showed dark hair covering the right side of his face and feathering out of a short, high ponytail. His features were hard to determine with the harsh shadows and the wispy, black jellyfish covering his left cheek and traveling down his neck. His fingers flew over the keyboard, picking up speed and adding different sounds to the melody.
A rhythmic clapping spread through the room, and despite Yūta's nerves he was compelled to join in. Pink spotlights battled the blue flooding the stage, creating an ever-changing wall of shadow as five more bodies ran out.
The one to capture Yūta's attention was the man leading the charge. Dark hair fanned out from two buns atop his head. A thick, black line crossed over the bridge of his nose. His leather jacket and boots caught the vibrant light show as he stomped to the microphone in the center of the stage.
He grabbed the stand, yanked it close, and unleashed an ear-splitting roar that caused Yūta's heart to leap through flesh and bone and onto the dirty concrete floor.
Aggressive, severely distorted guitar sent Yūta's gaze flying to the man just to the left of the singer.
Black hair defied gravity in thin spikes, and a design that invoked the danger of a wolf harshened the already angular features of the guitarist's face. An asymmetrical cardigan guided the gaze down to a white guitar with a dog shadow puppet painted on the body.
While Yūta couldn't understand the melody, the way fingers glided over the neck at a speed he could never dream of holding a candle to suggested a practiced intricacy that Wolf had spent years honing.
It was then that Yūta noticed Wolf was making the same inhuman noises as the vocalist. Seriously, that couldn't actually be them that were singing, could it? It sounded like some fabled beasts broke into the venue and were disguising as humans for the fun of it.
Yūta couldn't stop himself from visibly shivering at the chill sent down his spine by a particularly low, gritty growl that was unleashed as an intimidating gaze glared right into the depths of his very soul.
A blur of pink darted across the stage, and another guitarist made his way to the Jellyfish. That next member had the loudest appearance of them all, with a bright fuschia jacket that clashed horribly with the spikey, rosy hair on his head. A gash was painted across the front of his face from above his left brow to below his right eye, and the left corner of his mouth appeared torn open—revealing bloody teeth.
Yūta really hoped for Pinky's safety that those were also paint like the others appeared to be.
The erratic dancing prevented Yūta from clearly seeing how intricate the fingerwork is, but surely with that level of energy, that guitarist couldn't possibly have been playing something as intense as Wolf, right?
A shoulder collided with his own, and Yūta about jumped out of his skin with a scream.
His gaze flew to the right, and where Kugisaki and her two friends once stood were now five men in a circle around the woman dressed in lolita fashion. Just behind them, Yūta spotted Kugisaki and her tall friend…
Are they fighting?!
Their hands flew around them—shoving, punching, thrusting into the air—matching the beats of the song as if that was meant to happen. Kugisaki had a feral grin on her face, even as a stray elbow caught her brow. There were no signs that the blow affected her in the slightest, and she smoothly transitioned to a dance with intricate footwork that created a circle around her.
As the circle got wider, people ran around the edges, providing an open space for Kugisaki to bring all eyes upon her as she danced.
Yūta lost track of when songs ended and began. The vocalist was screaming at the crowd, but Yūta couldn't understand a word.
He took notice of the drummer during an intense solo. Forest-green hair flowed down the left side of her face in feathery layers while the right side was cropped close to her skull. Her jacket's sleeves didn't match: the right ended just passed her shoulder, showing off a skin-tight sleeve and glove, and the left went all the way down to a bare wrist. A wispy snake traveled up from the corner of her mouth, behind her ear, and down her neck.
The drumsticks were nothing more than a blur of motion as she played. Yūta had never seen anything like it before. Snake effortlessly tossed her drumsticks in the air and screamed at the crowd like she could have played this show in her sleep.
Finally, at the opposite corner of the stage from where he stood, Yūta caught sight of the bassist.
In a band where everyone demanded the audience's full attention, this member chose to remain in the shadows. The colors danced off his white cargo pants, silver jacket, and pale blonde hair. It called to mind the lights of Shibuya Crossing glistening on the evening snow.
His face paint was harder to decipher than the rest (though the vocalist's was simple enough to be confusing). Two circles attached to the corners of his mouth with thin lines, and on his chin there was a third circle with spikes on the top and bottom.
Was it supposed to be eyes and a mouth?
The bassist had his eyes closed while he gently swayed back and forth. It would have been easy to imagine some soothing melody to accompany the movement if not for the booming music that was playing. For the rest of the concert, Yūta could barely take his attention away from the calm bassist. At one point, he subconsciously attempted to move through the crowd to get closer and only realized once he got yanked back to Panda's side.
There was something endlessly intriguing about the way the bassist so clearly enjoyed being up on stage but didn't feel the need to be flashy or overly energetic like the other members.
Panda's hand continued to rest firmly on Yūta's shoulder, protecting him from the rowdy dancing surrounding them. It grounded Yūta and prevented his anxiety from skyrocketing to the point where he would have to flee to the nearest restroom to calm down.
At least until someone tapped his free shoulder and a terrified shriek ripped itself from his throat. His head whipped to the side, bringing his gaze to one of the men in the circle tht surrounded Lolita Woman.
A thick, black beanie pressed down on almost shoulder-length brown hair. The man's outfit was almost as simple as Yūta's, just a baggy, long-sleeve t-shirt, chunky pants, and worn boots.
A hand was held out to Yūta, and a small package containing two neon pink earplugs rested in the palm. He looked a question at Beanie, who pointed to his ear with his other hand and shouted, "It'll protect your ears from the noise!"
Yūta hesitantly took the package, stuck the earbuds in, and waited for something to happen.
He wasn't entirely sure what could happen, but he knew it wouldn't be good.
However, the bright smile from Beanie somehow managed to soothe his nerves, as if he was being praised by a popular senpai back in school. Yūta managed a soft smile and shouted his thanks before he turned his attention back to the stage.
Well, the bassist mostly.
Once his ears were protected from the majority of the harsh noise previously tearing into his eardrums, the vibrations that pulsed down to his bones became more pronounced. It allowed him to drown out the intense guitar and focus on the deep melodies of the bass.
Yūta's heart skipped a beat, and his cheeks burned from the stray thought that it was almost like the bassist's music was touching his very core.
Wholly and utterly entranced by the bassist, Yūta didn't even realize the band played their last song until something smacked into the middle of his forehead. In a miracle of pure, un-trained instinct, Yūta managed to grab it before it fell to the floor.
It was a pick. Yūta may have known next to nothing about music, but he at least knew that much. It was a deep blue, with a brand logo on one side and something painted on the other. When he flipped it over, he saw the same design painted on the bassist's face staring up at him in stark white.
His heart pounded against his ribs and he attempted to will away the heat in his cheeks. Was this what a crush felt like? It had been so many years since the last time he felt this jitter of nerves caused by the mere presence of another person.
He glanced up, hoping to catch another glimpse of the bassist sending his nervous system into overdrive, but the stage was already empty.
He didn't have a chance to ponder about the dejection sinking in his gut before the hand that still rested on his shoulder—not having moved once the entire concert—guided him to walk. They were following the trio from earlier, Kugisaki sporting a fresh black eye and Lolita's cheeks colored a rosy pink. Yūta slipped the pick into his pocket for safekeeping.
There was no sign of Lolita's guardians from earlier, and Yūta wondered if they'd already left or decided to stay behind. He really wanted to properly thank the guy with the beanie for the earplugs. As he threw them in a trashcan, he made a mental note to pick up a few packs to keep just in case he ended up dragged to another show in the future.
It took Yūta quite a few moments to realize that they were not heading out the way they originally entered. Instead, they walked to a door hidden just off the side of the stage. His badge was inspected, Panda jovially greeted, and the five of them were led down a hall of doors by a man with a simple haircut and rectangular glasses who would fit a suit much better than the band shirt and straight jeans that made up his attire.
Shouts could be heard through the door with a temporary "Death Painting" label taped to it. Their guide opened it with a flourish before announcing his departure to collect the instruments and equipment.
All six members of the band were spread about the moderately-sized room. One loveseat housed Jellyfish and Pinky, while Wolf rested against the arm. The other loveseat held Snake and the bassist, who had placed a mask over his nose and mouth. Yūta ignored how his heart skipped a beat and shifted his gaze to the singular armchair, where the vocalist sat pulling his hair out of its buns.
Kugisaki charged up to Snake without a word and they met in an intense, lip-smacking kiss that had Yūta averting his gaze in embarrassment. The others present seemed to be used to the very public display of affection, as they didn't even bat an eye as seating arrangements shifted to accommodate the extra bodies.
Yūta chose to remain against the wall while Panda went to stand beside the vocalist.
"Chōsō," Panda reprimanded, "I barely saw you drinking water."
Chōsō(?) scoffed. "You're really keeping an eye on that?"
"I am not allowing you to be one more entry on the long list of people who have torn their vocal cords."
Chōsō rolled his eyes, ignoring how Panda was leaning over him with his arms crossed.
"If you fuck up your throat that means time off to fix it, which means you could miss out on an opportunity." Panda pointed at Pinky. "Think of Itadori-kun and your other brothers and take better care of yourself."
Chōsō looked at Itadori, who appeared oblivious to the fact that attention was called to him, and heaved a sigh of resignation.
Panda smirked and patted Chōsō on the head. Meanwhile, Yūta was gazing between Chōsō and Itadori, trying to find any semblance of familial genetics. Maybe their jawline?
They had different accents as well—as Itadori was chattering nonstop to his bandmates—which only confused Yūta further. The curiosity ate away at him, and he shifted his arms as a way to hopefully expel the restless energy. He was positive he wouldn't get answers, and it would have been rude to even attempt.
"Nobara," Itadori suddenly piped up, looking at Kugisaki. "I'm surprised you haven't said anything about Maki's tit flying out at one point during the set."
"I missed that?!" Kugisaki asked.
"It did not!" Maki(?) retorted.
Kugisaki grabbed handfuls of Maki's barely covered breasts. "These are mine! You can't be showing them off to everyone." She glared at Itadori. "Especially not Yūji."
"Inappropriate behavior." Chōsō's reprimand fell on deaf ears.
"It wasn't like I was intentionally looking!" Itadori attempted to defend himself.
"You know," Wolf joined in, "if you want to talk about fuck ups, how about we bring up the fact that you fucked up the chords during 'Rain'?"
"Megumiiii," Itadori whined. "I fixed it right away!"
"Maybe if you weren't busy running around the stage like a rat on cocaine, you could focus more on your finger placement," Megumi chided, but there was barely a bite to the words.
"Need a drink, Yūji?" Jellyfish interrupted the scolding. "Your voice is scratchy."
Itadori beamed at Jellyfish and took the offered water bottle. "Thanks, Junpei!"
Yūta noticed the faint blush creeping onto Junpei(?)'s face.
"Inumaki-kun, take a picture with me." The tall woman with Kugisaki and Lolita earlier stood beside the bassist and gestured to her phone.
Inumaki, huh? At least Yūta now had a name to go with the face.
"Fumi-chan, you too."
Lolita, Fumi(?), flinched and shook her head.
"Come on, Saori-chan," Kugisaki jumped in. "You know how Fumi-chan feels about pictures."
"But she's too adorable to pass up today!" Saori(?) proclaimed. "Plus," a mischievous smirk curled her lips, "she can share it with her fan club."
The blush painted on Fumi's cheeks deepened in hue. She sighed and crept over to where Inumaki and Saori had moved to stand by Megumi.
Fan club? Could that have been the guys that were circling her during the concert?
With a roll of his eyes, Megumi took Saori's offered phone and gestured for them to get together and pose.
Several pictures were taken, especially after Itadori grabbed Junpei and hauled him behind the original trio to join in. For every picture they shouted…food?
"Tuna!"
"Salmon Roe!"
"Kelp!"
Yūta wondered if there was some kind of inside joke he didn't know the context to.
"By the way, where's that annoying bastard, Tōdō, at?" Maki sneered at Itadori.
"Why are you asking me?" Itadori demanded.
"Because you're his brother," Maki clarified, lacing the word with disgust. How many siblings did Itadori have?
"That doesn't mean I'm his keeper!" Itadori pulled out his phone, regardless. "Looks like he's at another handshake event."
Megumi scoffed. "It's been months since that asshole left the band to stalk his idol around the country. Why hasn't he been arrested yet?"
"You can't say he isn't dedicated," Saori chimed in as she sat down on the couch with Inumaki and Fumi.
"I like Inumaki as our bassist more anyways," Chōsō said. "He's quieter."
Inumaki only threw up a peace sign in response.
"I have nightmares about being Tōdō's manager, still." Panda shuddered. "So many PR Incidents to file."
"You say that like he gropes the idols!" Itadori groaned.
"It's creepy how obsessive he is!"
"Most fans are like that!"
"Can't you tell I despise idol culture?" Panda inquired.
"But yet you encourage it with our fans," Chōsō sneered.
"I didn't say I don't like the money it rakes in. I just don't need any of you to be in it so deep."
Yūta's back nestled firmly into the corner of the room. He wrapped himself in his arms and shrank as much as possible. No one had acknowledged his presence, and he was unsure if he should just leave at this point.
Everyone was engrossed in their conversations, now including teasing remarks about dressing the male members of the band as idols for their next concert. It would have been easy for Yūta to slip out of the room; it probably wouldn't have been noticed.
He peeked at Panda on occasion, hoping that his friend would see the pleading in his eyes and allow them to leave. He didn't know this part of town at all; who knew what kind of thugs were lurking about waiting to mug him.
He nearly leapt out of his skin when something prodded his shoulder. His head whipped over to see Inumaki there, wide-eyed, with his hand aloft where it had grabbed Yūta's attention.
Yūta's mouth opened, but he realized far too late that words were unable to slip past the hard lump in his throat. He swallowed, but it did nothing to clear the way. A frantic beat pulsed in his ears as he took in Inumaki's deep, umber eyes and feathery eyelashes. Soft, thin lips rested in a straight line, a neutral expression not belying any indication as to why Inumaki chose to walk over to Yūta.
The hand still in the air rotated, fingers unfurling to reveal a small slip of paper nestled in the palm. Yūta looked between the torn page and Inumaki's eyes, his own hands cradled into his chest.
Inumaki took half a step closer, his other hand reaching up with fingers spread wide, as if he was being held at gunpoint by an officer.
Yūta took a few deep breaths and used trembling fingers to take the paper from the upturned palm. He flipped it over and the scrawled script sent his stomach plummeting.
You don't have to stay here if you don't want to.
Yūta had hoped that staying out of the way would keep himself from angering everyone. He wouldn't barge into any conversations uninvited and make an utter fool of himself. Yet it seemed he still managed to ruin it all anyway.
Without glancing up at Inumaki, Yūta nodded in understanding and slipped out of the room as silently as he could manage.
Panda didn't call out to him, so Yūta truly must not have been wanted there at all.
He wandered through the venue, ignoring the few lingering employees cleaning up after the show. He managed to find a door and pushed through it, but he found himself in a cold, damp alleyway. Only a fuzzy, blinking light was his guidance back to the street.
He almost slammed into a taxi. Not a great start to the drive. Thankfully it was late enough that not many would be occupied, and only after several stammered apologies did the driver allow him in the backseat.
Yūta buried his face in his palms, focusing on the rough texture of the glue still coating his skin and how it scratched his cheek. He shifted around, feeling the dip in the cushion from the hundreds of people that sat in this same spot before. Music filled the otherwise dead air, and the gentle melody was better to listen to than the constant stream of panic in his head.
Yūta was positive he overpaid the driver when he was dropped off. At least that could be another apology for almost causing vehicular manslaughter.
The exhaustion in his bones battled with his misfiring nerves—a constant twitching leaving behind an aching fatigue. He barely managed to get into his apartment and out of his clothes before he collapsed on the bed. Tama followed him moments later, curling up on his back and purring softly. He wished he could pet her, but he didn't have the strength to roll over.
He barely managed to even slip a hand under his shirt to grab the necklace permanently looped around his neck. He needed to feel the reassuring weight of the two rings it held in his palm.
Images of Inumaki flashed through Yūta's mind. The hypnotizing sway on stage, feathery lashes that caressed smooth cheeks, and the slight downturn of thin lips as Yūta took the paper. Even now, Yūta's heart pounded against his ribs as he recalled how the vibrant lights made the bassist's pale features practically glow.
Yūta dared not look into the corner of his room, a place where he normally found solace amidst the madness of the world. It would be wrong to mingle a place of such importance with the wild fantasies of his anxious mind.
It was pointless to even allow his brain to entertain these thoughts. Sure, it had been years since he'd had even an inkling of a crush, but he needed to stop this before it got worse.
Besides, it wasn't like he would see Inumaki ever again.