Chapter 1: Ascensionism.
Summary:
It's the first time the band is playing a song of their own on a gig instead of song covers.
Everyone is nervous for the show, but you — you're nervous because Maki told you a secret just the night before and had you promised not to share with them.
Chapter Text
Prologue — Ascensionism.
You can feel the floor trembling beneath your boots, a low hum that seeps into your bones before a single note is even played. The crowd isn’t massive — maybe forty, fifty people, most of them nursing plastic cups of cheap beer — but their chatter has that restless edge that means they’re ready to be impressed.
Satoru is leaning against the mic stand, sunglasses on despite the very dim light, fidgeting the mic cable between his fingers like he’s done numberless times during the rehearsals and shows.
He says it keeps him grounded.
He catches your eyes as he shoots a glance between the stage's curtains and his lips curl into a smirk. He knows how nervous you are for this particular show — it's the first time the band is playing an authorial song, not just that, it will be the first song of the playlist for the night.
Damned be Satoru Gojo for convincing everyone that this was a good idea.
Lights dim a little bit more when — in the stage's left wing — you operate the levers on the console, lowering their intensity just enough to make the string of fairy lights over the stage glow like a lazy constellation.
This doesn’t go unnoticed by the crowd, the chattering dying progressively as they realize the show is starting.
Not only are you the band’s lyricist along with Satoru, you also take care of the lighting and sound, you check the equipment, design the outfits and set the tone to their aesthetic, you also schedule the shows with the clubs, talk to promoters, to agents… and basically do every single thing at your reach to make sure all will be absolutely fine.
No one asked you to do that but you can't help but feel like just composing the lyrics isn't enough, and since you don't know how to play any instruments, you really want to help however you can with everything else.
You want to take the weight off them.
You want to be useful.
Suguru runs his fingers along the neck of his guitar, inspecting it and checking the tuning one last time. Toji barely glances up from his bass, but you can tell by the way his jaw shifts that he’s itching to start.
A little bit behind them, Maki is adjusting the straps of her fingerless black gloves, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck like a fighter about to step into the ring. She grips her drumsticks firmly before doing a little trick and twirling them on her fingers, giving you a short nod the next second — no words, no smile, just a nod — and you know she’s ready and the show is about to start.
Her sticks clash rhythmically four times against each other before she settles in.
Clack
Clack
Clack
Clack
Within the last clacking sound of her drumsticks you shine the spotlight directly on Satoru.
And so it begins.
The people who gather around the stage don't recognize the song, obviously, so you notice the low buzz and the puzzled expressions.
Your stomach twists with anticipation as Suguru keeps singing.
The crowd’s undivided attention is on him, on his soft voice singing through the first verses as the band waits for their mark.
The only other thing echoing besides his voice is the pre-recorded keyboard notes — also played by Satoru.
Well, I know what you want from me
You want someone to be
Your reflection, your bitter deception
Setting you free
So you take what you want, then leave
There’s a brief pause before the next sung part and you can’t help but hold your breath.
Will they like it? Is it really as good as you deemed it to be?
Who made you like this?
Who encrypted your dark gospel in body language?
Synapses snap back in blissful anguish
Tell me you met me in past lives, past lie
Past what might be eating me from the inside, darling
Half algorithm, half deity
Glitches in the code or gaps in a strange dream
Tell me you guessed my future and it mapped onto your fantasy
Turn me into your mannequin and I'll turn you into my puppet queen
And then, the room starts to change.
People start moving in a slow, soft kind of dance.
Heads nodding, feet tapping at the rhythm, shoulders swaying.
By the time Satoru’s voice pours into the mix — rich, velvety, and just a little dangerous — the crowd is locked in.
You exhale and feel your shoulders sag and relax, the sudden dizziness making you realize just now that you were really holding your breath all this time.
They like it.
Won't you come and dance in the dark with me?
Show me what you are, I am desperate to know
Nobody better than the perfect enemy
Digital demons make the night feel heavenly
Make it real
'Cause anything's better than the way I feel right now
I can offer you a blacklit paradise
Diamonds in the trees, pentagrams in the night sky
With a heavy sigh of relief you allow yourself to decompress and enjoy the show as much as the rest of the band and likely the audience, humming along as you still pay close attention on the stage — sound and lighting included — making sure nothing goes remotely wrong.
Satoru is nailing the lyrics and tone, he’s delivering each line perfectly and performing beautifully, gesturing softly sometimes, swaying his hips other times, letting his feelings bleed out into the song.
Lipstick, chemtrails, red flags, pink nails
With one eye on the door, other eye on a rail
While the other eye following a scarlet trail
And the last few drops from the Holy Grail, now
Rose gold chains, ripped lace, cut glass
Blood stains on the collar means just don't ask
Be the first to the feast
Let's choke on the past
And take to the broken skies at last
You make me wish I could disappear
You are mouthing the lyrics as he sings, now a little calmer, truly enjoying the experience when you realize the crowd is invested, curious, but paying very close attention.
They want more of it. More of Satoru's voice. More of his performance.
And as the song slowly reaches its breakdown, Suguru echoes with a whisper on the microphone.
“Diamonds in the trees, pentagrams in the night sky.”
And there is the cue, a furious strum — a precise picking pattern — attacking the strings, Maki plays heavily the drums, driving rhythm, a relentless beat, and Toji’s fingers walk up the thick strings, thumb slapped against the metal, a confident pluck, a steady, hypnotic motion.
The flock of people rejoice, cheer and scream, filled with sudden adrenaline as the song walked to its end after a heavy chorus.
“You're gonna watch me ascend ”
—a sudden roared phrase delivered impeccably by Suguru before Satoru picked up with the soft, soothing tone once again.
And I know what you want from me
You want the same as me
My redemption, eternal ascension
Setting me free
So I'll take what I want, then leave
You’re filled with some kind of excitement and delight you didn’t know existed.
They’re improvising with the lyrics and as the song reaches its conclusion, they’re singing together, perfectly synced as the crowd howls in bliss and your heart is pounding like crazy.
Song covers never got you to witness something like that.
“You make me wish I could disappear, no
You make me wish I could disappear"
Suguru and Satoru are leaning against each other — back against back — as they sing into the same mic, shoulders pressed together and body arched slightly, head tilted, eyes closed as they finish.
When the song ends, Satoru is oddly breathless — a rare sight for him.
You notice it stemmed from the nervous anticipation of debuting the first original song to a sizable audience.
To everyone's relief, it was a massive fucking hit.
The audience — which was composed for the most part by university students — applaud, roar, praise and cheer the band as they continue with their playlist for the night, returning right after that first song to the familiar covers they typically perform, thus allowing the lightly drunk young adults to finally sing along as they enjoy their friday night.
The original song was requested a few more times, and even though people feared they would deny, they were pleased to play again and again.
Amidst the razzmatazz, something catches your eyes.
Leaning against the far wall, half-hidden in the shadows near the bar counter, a tall guy with black ink crawling up his neck, jaw and face. You know him from a few classes you take together at the university but you didn’t take him for someone who would hang out in the same kinds of places as you and your alternative and diverse friends.
Maybe you shouldn't judge people by their appearance, how about that?
Coming to think of it, you haven't seen him anywhere outside the classroom.
His gaze is fixed on the stage, but there’s no smile, no visible reaction of joy or even boredom. Just the steady, unblinking attention of someone who seems to be analyzing something deeply. It's kind of mesmerizing to watch him from afar, but you will be taken as a creep if he catches you staring.
You look away before you can think too hard about it, going backstage to check if everything is still in one piece, nothing missing, no hidden fangirl again.
Gods Beneath is not very famous as a band — but Suguru and Satoru are… gorgeous, charismatic and pretty much eye candy.
Toji is jacked, buff, and has that sharp, resting bitch — handsome, nonetheless — face that does some damage.
Maki does wonders for the girls as well, who mistakenly take her as a fellow lesbian, when in reality she’s pretty much the only straight member of the band, you included.
Performing on the stage, they’re all stunning, attractive enough to have girls hiding backstage to flash them their boobs before Maki shoves them out.
*****
About an hour has passed after the show ended, so your friends finally get to unwind, go backstage and store their musical equipment before joining you at the bar, where you are absent mindedly chewing on the red straw of your half-empty cup of mostly melted ice.
Maki, coming from no fucking where, slides her bare arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer to her in a overjoyed hug that you start to lean into just before the realization hits and you slam the cup on the counter, bringing both your hands up to shove her away.
"Get those sticky ass arms off me! You’re gross!"
She howls with laughter as the rest of the guys come around slowly and join the fun.
Suguru has Satoru’s sunglasses resting on top of his shiny, now a little messy, black hair. Toji has his arm around the waist of a tall blonde woman you have never seen in your life. And Satoru now joins Maki in the attempt to pester you as you try to keep them both away from you like a damn zoo-keeper managing two sticky, sweaty velociraptors.
Assholes.
“How come you don’t want to be a part of this now? It's how we celebrate success!” Maki sneers, knocking twice on the wooden counter with her knuckles to grab the bartender’s attention before ordering the usual for them all.
Tequila shots and a round of caipirinhas to toast after the show.
“She’s always all over the place trying to fix this, solve that, arrange this, polish those, but when we actually want her to take part in something else… She bails. Unbelievable.” Satoru joins her mockery and you roll your eyes as you finish the already watered down bloody marry you brought back to your hands after making sure they would not get you all wet and stinky.
“There are better ways to thank me for taking care of the little things while you all play— I’ll bite your hand off if you dare.” You threaten as Suguru snickers but quickly retreats the arm he meant to wrap around your shoulders, thinking you wouldn’t notice.
They were all in their mid-twenties and still you can't help but feel that sometimes you dealt with overgrown toddlers. Maybe fifth-graders, at best.
When the tequila shots finally arrive, Toji is already gone, nowhere to be seen, so Suguru has to make the herculean sacrifice of drinking two doses, one after another, before soothing the burning sensation down with a gulp of the following fruity drink.
You all toast and cheer the success of the night, talking loudly, drinking and relishing in the amazing sensation of knowing that all the extra effort you and Satoru put on the lyrics and melody of that song paid off.
People are actually approaching you all to chat and to ask if you have already planned other shows, and if you plan to debut more original songs.
The feeling is unreal, and yet you can't bring yourself to fully experience the euphoria.
Maki has confided in you something just the night before and asked for absolute confidentiality.
She has been accepted at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland a month prior and has just finished organizing her documents, passports and new housing in Europe.
She will leave the furniture on the campus apartment you share with her since it’s a little too expensive to actually move it all across the sea, but in a week she will be departing on her new journey.
And you are really, extremely happy for her. It's an amazing opportunity, one in a lifetime, really.
But the bleak feeling of having your best friend move away — and the band losing its drummer is a hard thing to lift.
Maki never liked soppy goodbyes nor the overall look of sadness on people’s faces when they receive something they deem as bad news, and having her move away to another continent was the worst news she could ever deliver to them right now.
The band, your beloved band — Gods Beneath — that just now gathered the courage to throw its first single at the world and actually get the best feedback possible, would have to figure out what to do with the big news when it hit them.
How on earth are you supposed to just brush off the fact that one of your closest friends won't be right in the next door when you have a rough night and need someone to talk or to watch something stupid with you?
You will also have to find another drummer skilled enough and that has a fast pace learning new songs to fill her role before the end of the month, because of course there is already another show scheduled on the first sunday of May.
As if being capable of reading your mind, she comes closer to where you are leaning — with your brows furrowed and your lower lip being chewed on — and places a gentle kiss against your temple before lifting you off the floor briefly with a tight hug that goes around both your arms and almost crushes you.
She sometimes forgets she’s stronger than most boys.
*****
After a couple of hours the bar is finally thinning out, chairs scraping against the sticky floor as people drift toward the cold night outside.
You’re at the counter, elbows on the sticky wood, sipping the last inch of watered down cuba libre in your glass just so you have something to do as you wait for Maki to finish talking to a bunch of guys on the farther left of the bar.
Satoru is talking to a small group of people that surrounded him — mostly girls — and probably bragging about something as Suguru joins in to further inflate his already giant ego.
A shadow falls over the space beside you.
You don’t look up right away, from the presence alone you think it's probably Toji coming back to announce he is heading home for the night, but as you catch the faint scent of smoke and something sharper — copper, maybe — you turn your head and glance over.
“It was a reasonable show. Nice song.”
The voice is deep, stern, and a little low, which prompts you to squint a little to hear him better — as if it makes any sense.
The pale shade of pink of his hair is overtaken by the yellow bar lights.
He’s so much taller up close, the tattoos climbing his neck and jaws are at your eyes’ level and it makes it almost impossible for you to not stare for a little while before looking up and finding his eyes.
From such a small distance you can notice for the first time he has two slits on his left eyebrow, and you also notice how the dim light still shines well at his piercings. So many of them. Bridge, eyebrows, labret, snake bites, ears — they ornate very well with the black ink of his tattoos.
And you realize that his tattoos don't die out on his jaws as you previously thought when you glanced at him at the college, he has them on his face as well — fine lines, a beautiful work adorning a beautiful face.
His eyes lock onto yours as he rests his elbows on the counter and presses his back on its edge, leaning back.
“Thanks! Satoru and I worked really hard on it!” You say joyfully, probably sounding a little drunk already, but still unsure whether to smile at him as you finish slurping what is mostly melted ice from the bottom of your cup before placing it on the counter top.
You should really stop stalling so much to consume your drinks.
Something about him makes you a little bit uneasy, but you can't place your finger on what it is exactly.
He doesn’t reply right away, just studies you from above. Even with you straightening yourself up and him still leaning back, he easily towers over you.
“Your drummer’s good. Shame she won’t be around much longer.”
“Uh?” Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “How do you kn— who told you that?” Lowering your voice in a worry of Satoru or Suguru butting in the conversation, you urge him to quiet down, gesturing with your index in front of your lips with that impatient look on your face.
One corner of his mouth curls at your inquiry.
“I know a lot of things.”
And then, just like that, he pushes himself off the counter and leaves. Moving through the remnant crowd and vanishing like he was never there, leaving you questioning what the fuck even was that conversation.
What an ominous man.
You can ask Maki later if she told someone else of her departure on your way to the apartment.
Regardless, that anxiety building up in your chest is a you problem. And you are very determined to drown it in some vodka and maybe a glass or two of bourbon tonight with the gang on the afterparty.
You can think about solutions and maybe freak out a little bit after dealing with tomorrow's hangover.
Chapter 2: When the Bough Breaks
Summary:
Maki finally has to tell the band about her departure.
You have already found a suiting candidate to be your new roommate, but you still need to find a new drummer — and maybe help Satoru create a new project for your band out of thin air.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When the Bough Breaks
The sunlight through the blinds is a personal attack.
You barely manage to peel yourself off the couch, eyes crusty, mouth dry — your bed felt too far away last night — and the dull, echoing thump in your skull reminds you exactly why you hate tequila shots.
Still, you downed more than four of them last night, didn't you?
Somewhere in the kitchen, Maki is humming the melody of the new song the band played last night at the bar gig. She is already dressed, donning a black tank top and her beaten out jeans, hair tied up in a high ponytail, coffee mug in one hand, painkillers in the other.
An entirely unfair display of morning functionality.
“Good morning, sunshine.” She coos softly at you, not looking directly at your crusty face as she throws the aspirin pack on your scrunched self.
You let out a raspy groan and she understands it’s a thank you.
You are fairly sure your eyeliner has migrated halfway down your cheek and any trace of makeup you previously wore is now part of a reinterpretation of some sort of surrealist painting taking place all over your face.
“That’s… debatable.” You mutter, mouth really dry, voice gravelly.
She titters, letting her body sink in the couch, bare feet already up and resting over the coffee table and free hand foraging the cushions for the remote.
She sets her mug down and leans back comfortably as the old TV powers on.
The coffee smells divine, you just need to gather some strength to go grab yourself a mug and really start the morning.
Meanwhile you’re slowly screwing up courage to sit up properly and and pop a pill so your head stops trying to kill you.
You swallow it with no water, it feels like eating a small ball of sandpaper, and then proceed to yawn loudly, stretching your heavy arms as much as you can until you feel a little less crumpled.
At least you didn’t wake up with a stiff neck or some lower back pain this time, but it’s not very wise of you to keep pulling all nighters like that every time Satoru makes a pouty face and asks nicely for you to stay a little longer with them.
He's insane and has endless stamina and you're not that far from your thirties already, you should know better.
You glance at Maki, ignoring the TV’s hellish noise, and she is already watching you over the rim of her glasses.
“So… thanks for not telling everyone about the thing.”
The words hit harder than the hangover.
You actually managed to drink enough alcohol to briefly forget about that for the past hours.
“The thing, yeah.” You repeat, wondering why she is treating her departure as some unnamable terror. “Aren’t you happy about it? You don’t need to spare my feelings treating it as something bad, y’know? ”
You catch a glimpse of a smile on her lips before she reaches quickly for her mug and hides it in a long sip.
You roll your eyes and raise your brows. She still tries to treat you like a delicate thing that can’t handle any sort of conflict.
“I sent the documents yesterday before class. I already told Mai and Yuji about it and they made me show them everything.”
There she is, finally letting herself talk freely about something you know she’s ecstatic about.
You smile and nod as she keeps going, now both of you are ignoring the faint noises of the morning news being broadcasted on the screen.
“They made me take them on a web tour using google maps. Who does that?" You hear her indignation mixed with excitement. "But the conservatory in Glasgow is… fucking amazing.”
She smiles, reaching into her jeans’ pocket for her phone so she can show you a few pictures of the place.
And damn, she’s right.
The conservatory is magnificent.
Marvelous architecture and the classes seem to be all she ever wanted — and what she honestly deserves.
You let her walk you through some steps she will have to make in order to fully relocate to Europe, and as she does you finally get on your feet and start to… power through the headache and the sensation that your mouth is drier than the fucking desert.
You know she’s nervous, and you know she’s blabbing out so she can make sense of things and calm down a tad.
Maki follows you and keeps talking — it’s a common thing for the two of you. Almost routine.
You talk as you complete chores, solve issues, bathe, and do the daily deeds. Why halt the conversation if you can simply keep talking.
You wash your face, that hey, it doesn't look as bad as you thought.
You brush your teeth, take off your clothes and kick them to the dirty-clothes-corner under the sink, then proceed to step into the kitchen and pour yourself some of that good smelling coffee while in your underwear before even considering taking a shower.
It was freeing living with your best friend and having almost no boundaries.
You will miss this feeling deeply.
Maki is your drummer, your roommate, your anchor.
She helped you — and still does — through so much shit.
She has never mistreated you, never let you down, never let anyone wrong you, and always made sure you felt included in pretty much anything she took part in.
You were a very reserved child, very introspective and a little weird.
Coming from a rather complicated family, you were very wary of people coming close to you in general, but she didn’t let it stop her from being your friend.
For pulling you into being her friend.
Your first friend, your best friend.
She has been your soulmate since you were both very young, and despite being truly happy with her huge opportunity overseas, you feel a deep pit forming inside your chest and a knot in your guts.
Feels a little bit like grief , but you don’t let it leak to your face or tone.
And she promises she will call you every night, so there's no need to feel miserable, right?
It will be like she never left as she tells you about her day until you fall asleep. You let a bitter laugh die before it could crawl through your throat as you shut down the saddening thoughts.
As you finally get to enjoy your dose of hot, bitter, caffeinated drink, she cocks a brow at some message she just received on her phone.
She knows you noticed her face, so you settle against the kitchen counter, crossing your ankles as you wait for the context for her expression as you enjoy the comfortable warmth of the mug now nursed in both your hands.
“Yuji says he’s considering applying to be your new roomie.” She glances up from the cellphone screen to your surprised face. “He says this apartment is closer to his classes than the current one he’s in.”
When she shows you the texts you feel anxiety stirring inside your chest.
“Yeah? You think I would survive him as my roommate?” An eyebrow lifts in curiosity.
If you don’t accept him moving in, you can either find someone else of your choosing to fill Maki’s vacant bedroom until the end of the week or you can let fate decide as a random student is assigned to it.
“You know him a little bit better than I do, so…”
The words linger for a bit. Maki finally shrugs. “He’s… okay to spend time with? Decent boy. He’s younger than us, you know, he has more energy but he usually burns it all down on the field after classes. Football and sport stuff.”
You hum, staring into the bottom of your mug as she starts to wash her own.
“Plus, there won’t be any random girls roaming around your place in the mornings if he moves in.” She reaches for your mug and you give a final gulp before handing it to her so she can wash it too. “Can’t say the same for random twinks… Or maybe he’s into daddies?”
Yuji seems like a good kid as far as you know.
Maki, being the extrovert-mom-type-friend she is, simply showed up with him one day to one of the coffee dates you two used to have.
She said she caught him looking kind of lost and awkward around the campus on her way to the coffee shop and she decided to bring him and help him make some friends.
She simply took the guy in — like someone would take a lost puppy on the road before deciding to be its new foster mom.
Which later you pointed out to her and she brushed you off saying you were exaggerating.
But now you feel like you’re somehow inclined to accept him moving in just so you can take this extra worry off her head when she’s gone.
For him, she became a safety net, always there to catch him if he falls or fucks up, pretty much like she has been with you.
How come Maki always choses her friends based on how fucked up their ties with their families are?
And she doesn’t even realize it.
Anyway, you just went along with it when it happened.
You pulled another chair for him, made him feel welcomed — smiling and introducing yourself politely as you explained to him that this was a common Maki behavior and he shouldn’t fret about it.
She would not kidnap him nor sell his organs.
That's how Yuji became your new colleague — and Maki's adoptive-sophomore-slash-dog, even though she will slap you when you call him that.
Calling him your nephew, as in her son, also grants you a slap.
“Maybe it’s not a bad idea then. I don’t think I have the energy to deal with some random person moving in, so Yuji will do. If he misbehaves or ruins something I’ll make sure to send you the bill.” You sneer with a raised brow and Maki squints at you, not completely sure if you’re joking or not.
And you’re kind of not.
It's just saturday morning and you already found yourself a new roommate — He offered himself for the role but a win is a win, you’re taking it.
Except you haven’t showered yet and the clock marks 10:48a.m., meaning you and Maki have approximately ten minutes before Satoru starts spamming you with messages.
And why is that, you might ask?
Because you forgot — until now — that you are supposed to go to his place at 11a.m. and work on another melody he’s coming up with since… 4a.m. on this same day.
He told you about those plans before you left the bar to go home with Maki.
Why would he consider anything you promised under the effect of god knows how many drinks?
“Fuck-” you groan when you finally remember the promise.
Bolting for the bathroom, you take the fastest shower of your life, leaving a mildly confused Maki still in the kitchen, but soon she follows you and sits on the lid of the toilet to carry on with the conversation as you wash yourself.
“We gotta go to Satoru’s! He’s picking us up in like… five minutes.”
Maki stares at you through the dimmish glass of the box, brows furrowing before she scoffs.
“I’m not gonna spend my saturday with that nutjob trying to make sense of something that came to him in a dream , forget it.” So she remembers the plans he made! And it didn’t even cross her mind to remind your very forgetful self?
She sighs and leans back, resting the back of her head on the bathroom wall. “Besides, I won’t be here for the next show, you know that...”
And you can’t say she’s wrong.
You also can’t say you don’t want to spend every following second by her side until she inevitably leaves at the end of the next week. But you get it, she has things to do, people outside of your circle to tell the news and probably places to visit one last time.
“When will you tell the boys?” You inquire, already stepping out of the box and drenching the bath mat as she hands you your towel.
You have now two minutes before he pulls over outside the apartment and starts being an absolute gremlin about your lack of punctuality.
“And please don’t tell me you plan on just leaving and making me deal with the aftermath.”
Your words sound more like a threat than a plea, and you catch the corner of her lips twitching, like she might do exactly that.
But she shakes her head and drops her shoulders, defeated. “Soon? ”
“Not good enough.”
You yell to her from your bedroom, leaving behind some wet footmarks on the wooden floor and grabbing the first set of clothes you spot on the closet.
Maki is soon splayed on your bed, arms spread over your blanket and head hanging by the edge of the mattress, looking at you upside down.
“We gotta find another drummer soon. And we can’t actively search for one and make some kind of audition if we don’t know that our own drummer is planning on leaving.”
Your cellphone is buzzing on the coffee table. He’s already there, waiting for you, and you know you’re about to spend the next twenty minutes dealing with his bullshit.
The heavy groan Maki lets out is the affirmation you needed. She knows you’re right. She knows she’s being self-centered and an asshole by not telling the guys immediately, but she’s still nervous.
You understand her and don’t want to force her hand on it — but they have the right to know what’s unfolding behind the scenes.
“Let’s tell them tonight, ok? Do what you want with your saturday afternoon and I’ll try to arrange something if I don’t kill Satoru on the way to his house. Maybe we can have some pizza here or- shit, anyway, I gotta go, we settle this over text.”
You rush to the living room, lace your shoes and put your hair up in a bun — no time to brush it properly. You grab your backpack, cellphone and your keys before shouting to Maki, who’s still on your bed trying to think of how to make this inevitable situation less terrible for everyone.
“If you ghost my texts I’ll murder you too! Bye, love ya!”
*****
The ride to Satoru’s house wasn’t so terrible. Of course he teased you for not being punctual, and for straightway forgetting you made plans with him, but he soon agreed it was stupid to hold you accountable for plans he made at 4am and — on top of that — with you being far, very far from sober.
“I’m surprised Suguru isn’t already here?” You close the car’s door behind you before following Satoru to the entrance. “Doesn’t he normally crash at your place after drinking so much?”
Satoru unlocks the giant front door with only a scan of his face — you’re living in the future and you still think that’s nonsensical use of technology, what’s wrong with keys? — and gives passage so you can enter before him, like the gentleman he claims to be whenever he gets the chance.
You take off your shoes and leave them in the little shoe rack on the foyer.
You’ve been to his house a few times these past months, it is currently the best place to practice for the shows and to write undisturbed.
It has a great view of the giant vicinity around it from the second floor, it’s absolutely gigantic compared to your apartment, it’s also very welcoming, plus he has the sweetest dog you know, — Goma — pretty odd for an Akita since they’re usually headstrong and aggressive.
“He said he had to take care of a little thing before joining us today and that’s why he didn’t sleep in, can you believe that? Goma was very disappointed she had to sleep by herself.”
He sighs dramatically and walks by your side towards the kitchen, gesturing to the refrigerator as he starts grabbing some snacks from the pantry and shoving a few of the packs in his sweatpant’s pockets, the others he just piles up against his chest and hugs to keep from falling.
He could just ask you for some help with them but you glance over and leave him be as you keep walking to the refrigerator.
“To think my best friend chose to spend time doing something else instead of spending time with our band. With me!” The overbearing drama in his tone didn’t reach you, and he knew it wouldn’t, but that didn’t stop the scene.
Unphased and accustomed with the Gojo way of dealing with life and with people, you grab a big bottle of iced tea and one of coke, firmly holding one in each hand before swaying your hips to close the refrigerator door. “I know Goma sleeps on your bed with you. She's fine.”
Now you are both ready for the following hours of finding out what Satoru wants.
“And it’s probably important if he had to deal with it on a saturday before lunch — after going to bed at sunrise or later.” Leading the way to his bedroom on the upper floor, you hear him grumbling something and finally following you.
You’re there to work on the new lyrics, not to massage his ego by agreeing that he, Satoru Gojo, is the most important person in all his friends' lives, and there is nothing that could be more important than a plan made with him.
He already believes that vehemently, you’re sure.
“You were much more fun last night.” He finally arrives at his own bedroom, sprawling across the armchair beside his king sized bed and tossing a few of the snack packs on the mattress and others on the low coffee table near it. “You agreed with everything I said, and even laughed at my jokes.”
He has a small hint of a pout on his lips, and when you don’t respond he pokes at your lower back with his left foot. You squirm a little, ticklish.
His bedroom is immense — as is the rest of his house — and yet you prefer to nestle on the fluffy white carpet by the low coffee table he has between his bed and the balcony.
You reach inside your backpack for your notebook and your laptop, laying out all your stuff across the tabletop.
“And what did being much more fun last night do for me?” You shoot an accusatory glance at him over your shoulder and grab his sock covered foot with a strong grip, pressing your thumb against his sole lightly before he could poke you again.
“It made you join me for the day~” he croons and opens a wide smile.
“Exactly.” You raise a brow and let go of his foot, just so he finally melts down from the armchair to the floor and crouches a little behind you, very close, looming over your shoulder to peek at the pages of drafts and lyrics you are skimming through.
The number one enemy of personal space, ladies and gentlemen.
But allowing him to be this close means he has your trust.
He spent a lot of time building that trust though, and so did Suguru.
It wasn’t until the beginning of this year that you started allowing them to hug you tight, or to pass arms around your shoulder when sitting side by side.
You allow them to actually be handsy with you in their own friendly way — like they are with each other and with Maki.
And of course Satoru grasps tight every chance he has to be close to you. As he says, ‘it’s an honor given to few, so I’ll enjoy it thoroughly.’
“That's me?” A long finger coming from under your left arm stops you from turning the pages.
His left arm brushing against your waist as he stares at a work in progress you had made for the band’s outfits.
“I’d look very good in that— I mean, I look very good in mostly everything, but that?” He let out a soft moan to make his point across and you can’t help but laugh.
You didn’t think he would be okay with such an exposing design, but who did you think you were designing for, honestly?
This man would probably agree to wear a thong, cowboy boots and nothing else on a stage and he would be absolutely confident doing it.
“Yeah, and this is for Toji, and this right here for Suguru.”
You finally turn the pages to show him the rest of the designs and the color palette you considered for them.
He has his chin nested on your right shoulder now, making himself absolutely comfortable in your personal space as he sits properly behind you with crossed legs. He’s way taller than you, so you can only imagine how hunched over he is just to keep his chin resting there.
“Where’s Maki’s?” He asks looking for it, turning the pages slowly to peek over a few more discarded designs, but you shrug in response.
“She didn’t like anything I had thought for her, found them too revealing, so I started working on other designs… but I’ll revisit this idea since you like it so much.”
You aren’t lying, she really didn’t give you an easy time when you were showing her your ideas, but coming to think of it she was probably already thinking of leaving the country, and the band, to pursue her dreams in Europe.
That would make sense.
“And what’s that frown for?” His bright blue eyes are locked on your face now, still too close as he just turns his head a little to examine that expression.
It’s about time to stop calling it your personal space and start calling it your shared space, or our personal space, at least when you are around Satoru.
“Just thinking about how big your bedroom is, and still you prefer to be almost fused with me.” You shoot him a side eyed glare when you mutter the response, but his lips widen in a grim instead of doing the normal thing, which would be sitting besides you.
Did you expect something different? So naive of you.
“I barely spent time with you this past week between rehearsals and classes, a man can’t shower his best friend in affection? How will you know I’m glad you’re spending your saturday working with me?”
He teases and now you feel his arms sliding properly around your waist from behind you, slowly wrapping your torso.
You also feel the blood rushing to your face and the heat coming up quickly. You’re kind of used to him now, and also to his ways of showing love and affection — he’s handsy, has no shame and won’t let go of his friends, physically.
You see him and Suguru glued to each other on a daily basis, but you still feel embarrassed when you are the one receiving his attention. He is still a very handsome, incredibly charming and good smelling man with the voice of an angel and smooth talk of a devil, it's only normal to feel flustered when he does things like that.
“Y-you can use your words to demonstrate what you want people to know, Satoru.” You whisper a little too low for your own liking, and he sneers.
The next thing you know is that the arms around your waist tighten the grip and he raises you from the spot you’re so comfortably perched, pulling you back into his lap. You’re now sitting on a slightly different — also very comfortable — spot.
And your face is burning.
“And you just said downstairs that Suguru is your best friend.” You point out as nonchalantly as you can, trying to abstract the thoughts worming inside your brain with you being on his lap and his chin once again resting on your right shoulder.
His breath smells like mint and tobacco.
“He can claim that position back once he stops leaving me for less important things.”
Dismissing the subject, one of his arms leaves your waist to reach for the cellphone in his pocket.
You lower your eyes to his screen and can’t stop yourself from inspecting everything, after all he’s scrolling down his notes app in front of you, literally — his hand holding the device is resting on the low table’s edge, between your body and the notebook and all your scattered shit.
His other arm is wrapped around your waist loosely, with his fingers tapping in some rhythm only he knows against your bare skin since your shirt scrunched up a little when he grabbed you.
He is probably looking for the notes he wrote for the melody he thought about and so desperately needed to show you last night.
It doesn’t take long for him to find what he’s looking for and place the cellphone in your hands so you can give it a look and tell him what you think of it.
There are notations of lyrics, of the feelings he wants to manifest with it and some incoherent words that probably made sense to him last night. You can work with that.
Reading the notes also came with the exclusive version of the melody he created too, hummed directly into your ear as you felt every single hair in your body stand on end — yes, the goosebumps are here now, guys.
It will be one hell of an afternoon.
*****
It’s now one and thirty in the afternoon and you two look like you haven’t moved, except for the notebook you are aggressively scribbling on as Satoru tries to help with the completion of the lyrics to make them fit the rhythm.
Yes, you have managed to forget the embarrassment of being on his lap, and you both are still snuggled up as you focus on the important things.
“You don't really love…” You nibble at the back of your pen to avoid chewing the insides of your cheeks, brows knit together and your eyes are fixed on some random point in front of you as you think.
Satoru, on the other hand, has his eyes on your notebook, chin now resting on top of your head and humming like it would instantly kill him to stop even if just for a second.
“You just hate to be alone? ” You mumble and write it down the line, now chewing on the insides of your cheeks, the effort was in vain.
And then he squeezes you harder as his eyes widen.
“That’s it!” He exclaims and tightens even more that hug of sorts around you, laying a kiss against the top of your head — which makes you widen your eyes and feel your cheeks begin to warm again. “We did it! And all it took for you to be inspired was being this close to me~ You can say I’m your muse now.” He once again rests his chin on your head. “Satoru Gojo does not do average.”
You are not sure if you should headbutt his chin, but you’re a little tempted to.
This thought is interrupted by Suguru showing up unannounced, already coming inside the bedroom and stopping just a few steps away from you both.
It figures he has his face already registered on the door scan based on how much he claims to be at Satoru’s during the weeks.
“Satoru, I take a few hours to solve something and you’re already tangled up with someone else.” His hand rests on his hip and he tilts his head a little to the side, a hint of a pout on his lips. “And all this time I thought that what we had was real…”
They are certainly two halves of the same drama queen.
The amount of frowning you are doing on this day only will certainly give you wrinkles before your forties, but it took less than five seconds for Suguru to drop down besides Satoru and scooch over to see what you two were up to while he was not around.
Now you have a chin on your head and, once again, a chin on your shoulder.
At least he didn't try to pile up and sit on your lap. It wouldn’t be the first time.
And you know you would be burned alive if at any point in your life you complain about the situation you find yourself in.
You know some people would do unthinkable things to be where you are right now.
But you? You’re a little bit too blunt.
You get flustered, sometimes a little embarrassed, but you’re not sure why, since they’re just acting like they do around each other.
They’re your handsy, clingy friends.
They never crossed any of your boundaries nor limits, so you’re yet to find out why you feel your stomach behaving strangely at given moments when they’re just behaving as the dorks they are.
You’re also completely incapable of noticing common hints and undertones. Social cues? Oof, big miss.
So here you are, buried in hot men that treat you like a treasure, explaining the lyrics as Satoru does his best to point to Suguru how the guitar would go with this specific melody.
“I think I got it, I can try to make sense of it, let me grab your guitar real quick, Toru.” Suguru rises from where he is, and you tap on Satoru’s arm around your waist, signalling that you would like to get up as well.
He allows it by slowly letting you free from his hold, proceeding to stretch his arms — getting his white shirt to raise a little bit, exposing just a tiny bit of his belly and happy trail in the process — and then cracking his back like an old man.
You look up to the ceiling when you realize you were looking at his abs after you managed to get up, but why the hell would you be looking at the ceiling?
So you look straight down and stare for a while at your own feet. Satoru doesn’t seem to notice anything, since he’s not teasing you about it, so you exhale slowly and try to act like a normal, human person.
Grabbing a pack of pringles along with your notebook, you flop on his bed, laying on your stomach to keep refining the lyrics. Suguru grabs one of the many guitars Satoru has displayed on the far wall of his bedroom to practice a bit of what he has been told.
Satoru's guitars all really beautiful. Some of them have some kind of meaning, but he admitted that some are just for the sake of the aesthetic of his bedroom.
It’s been another three hours of Satoru and Suguru working on the melody and you rolling on the mattress every now and then, half way through with the lyrics.
The chorus is a bit tricky to come by, and iced tea, chips and that morning coffee being the only food in your stomach could be the reason you're not really as sharp as you could be.
You’re hungry, your stomach starts rumbling and you know you’re gonna get bitchy and mean if you don’t fix it soon, besides, it’s four in the afternoon and none of you had a decent lunch, so you force them to drop the guitar and go downstairs to grab something substantial to eat.
Since there is nothing ready, Satoru is forced to cook for you three, and he chooses to make some omurice because it’s quick and Suguru says he makes the best ones.
As he cooks you listen to Suguru talking about all the nice things people said last night after you went home.
“They asked about the inspiration for the lyrics, and said it was really beautiful and unique.”
You open a bright smile.
“Toru told them you wrote them with him in mind.” Suguru rests his elbows on the kitchen counter, intertwines his fingers and lays his chin on them. “He said he’s your muse.”
“And now you can tell Suguru that I, in fact, am your muse.” He drawls as he cracks an egg on the hot pan.
“You’re just gonna break your own heart, Toru. Everyone knows I’m her real muse. Isn’t that right?” Suguru coos and raises his face from his hands to reach at your left hand that is also resting over the counter.
“My muse was Blade.” You deadpan. Both men look bewildered. “You know, the vampire hunter? I had just watched it when I started to scribble the lyrics.”
They both didn’t say anything until the omurice was ready, but you could see their pout and furrower brows at all times.
So sensitive.
Well, it’s soon proved Suguru was not wrong.
Maybe it's hunger speaking, but you devour the food like a beast, thinking that rice and eggs don’t have the right to taste this good, and to have such a perfect texture as well.
Realizing you’re enjoying it too much, they smirk and take a few moments to watch you eating. You feel their gaze on you and raise your eyes from the food bowl.
You feel like some sort of cute baby animal doing something for the first time in front of tourists.
But you’re now well fed and satiated, so they will be escaping your insults for the time being.
Once you’re all done it’s time to go back to the lyrics, Satoru and Suguru want to go to the studio downstairs claiming they can work better on the riffs and notes with the actual electric guitar — and you go along with it, bringing your notebook with you to see if it will help you coming up with the very needed chorus that’s still a little obscure on your mind.
You sit down cross legged on the corner of the studio as the boys get ready, Satoru hops on the electric keyboard to work some of the notes instead of singing the fractioned lyrics and Suguru is already catching the melody without needing too many corrections.
Your phone buzzes and you see it’s a message from Maki asking if you’re alive and if you already gave up on making her tell the boys such bad news on a saturday night.
And of course you didn’t.
“You guys know what’s Toji up to tonight?” Your unprompted question interrupts them mid practice, and then there’s a ten seconds of pure silence of them both just looking at you, trying to understand why exactly you wanted to know about Toji’s plans for a saturday night.
They blink, a pair of squinting eyes and arched brows still waiting for your elaboration.
“Is Toji free to practice with us, or maybe have a pizza with you two, me and Maki later?”
The much needed clarification makes them nod before saying he’s probably still asleep since he most definitely took the hot blonde from last night home to have some fun.
“You two take him for a manwhore, he’s just enjoying his rising fame, and you two are in a former-garage stuck with me. Who do you guys think is winning?”
You coax, but when they reply ‘us, obviously’ in unison you scoff and go back to texting Maki to let her know of the still standing plan, to which she replies that she may have to cancel due to a thing that came up last minute.
“Don’t lie to me.” You snap quietly and mutter at your phone's screen as you type back, starting to consider going home early and dragging her back to Satoru’s by her ponytail.
“That works.” Suguru replies and you only now realize that they were still paying attention to you.
He starts to play the chorus notes and echo ‘don’t lie to me’ rhythmically.
Satoru plays along on the keyboard.
It fits. It works. It’s done.
And now you’re finally texting Toji to invite him over to practice a little bit, knowing he really only enjoys doing it when the song is basically complete.
Maki, on the other hand, will show up later just to have some pizza.
Luckily, Satoru doesn't get anxious when she’s not on the rehearsals since she lives with you and he’s very aware you fill her in with everything you all accomplished on the practice.
*****
“When will Maki arrive?” Toji only wants to know because Suguru told him it was polite to order the food only when everyone is already present. “I’m already done with practicing today, an hour is more than enough for me.” He groans.
You’re lying with your back on the floor, legs bent, knees up, feet tapping nervously against the floor and cellphone in your hand as you convince Maki to call an uber and share the link with you.
For someone that is willing to kill for her, you’re being a little too ruthless with your best friend, but then again… the three men in this studio with you also became good, close friends.
And it was all thanks to her.
You also care a lot about them, and Maki was a key element to connect all of you — It’s only fair she makes it all very clear with the band so things can work out for everyone, not just for her.
“She’s on her way, let’s say… less than thirty minutes.” Toji groans once again but there’s just so much you can do about it.
“Maybe let’s go again from the start?” Getting up from the floor, you hope it will at least distract them for a little bit more “I can record this time so I show Maki when she arrives.”
“You’re such a good friend.” Suguru gives you a warm smile. “You should consider grabbing some management classes one of these days… I think we will need a music manager soon enough.” He winks at you and chuckles.
That came out of nowhere, but so do a lot of things Suguru says.
You shrug, maybe he’s right.
But if you do become their manager at some point on top of everything you already do, you fear that you won’t be able to dedicate as much time as you like to writing lyrics. Or anything else.
“Enough chitchat, let’s do it one more time then.” Toji barks and you open your camera app to start recording.
This time you can see Satoru performing dramatically again on the mic stand as he sings, and that’s just a video for Maki, when true fame comes, how much more unhinged will this man become?
After almost thirty minutes the doorbell rings and Satoru jumps from the couch to answer it.
Everyone is in the living room now, Toji sinking on the armchair, his stomach rumbling loudly every now and then, Suguru laying down on the bigger couch with his head resting on your lap as you run your fingers through his silky dark stands.
And now there’s Maki, coming along with Satoru and sitting by your side. Satoru sits on Suguru’s stomach, ripping from the poor man a pained moan.
“Everyone is here, can we order the fucking food already?” Toji’s stomach once again speaks up after his complaint, and Maki is already on her phone to order the pizzas from the same place you all always order when you’re too tired and hungry after rehearsals.
She does it in less than two minutes and shows him the screen with the ‘food being prepared’ message.
“Fuckin’ finally.” He lets himself relax on the armchair, calming down for once.
“Why didn’t you feed him something until I got here?” She pokes Satoru’s waist “You made him come with the promise of food and trapped him downstairs to practice until now?”
And by the guttural sound Toji makes she understands that it is exactly what had happened. “You’re all too mean with him just because he’s not the biggest fan of practicing to perfection.”
For the first time in a while you are all reunited in that living room again, talking about random things and laughing at anything at all, not really worrying about getting ready for another show.
The following scheduled show would happen next month — in two and a half weeks — so you could enjoy the relaxed atmosphere for a little while, right?
You would wait until after the pizzas to actually have Maki talk to them — it would be less of a risk of drama with the guys being less hangry. Or so you think.
There is only half a pizza left in the box lying on the coffee table now, all the empty boxes are piled over the kitchen counter and you are all full, happy and discussing the high points of the past shows, as well as the low points and failures you could avoid in the future.
The clock shows it’s near ten, so you give Maki a gentle tap on the thigh. She can’t procrastinate anymore.
With a heavy sigh, she finally speaks after so much time building up the courage.
“So… I’ve been accepted into a badass music conservatory.” She states, grabbing everyone’s attention with that start. “You know how I always wanted to follow a very solid path when it comes to music, so I took my time and did some research to find the best ones that could work for me, and then applied to them.”
She is sitting by your side still. Your hand is being held by hers now, hidden between you both.
She speaks very calmly, even with hints of excitement, but she’s really nervous.
“That’s wonderful! Who would think we have a soon to be graduated professional musicist as our drummer?” Satoru interrupts her, gesturing widely and rising from his spot on the couch to further show his excitement as he stops in front of her. “So this reunion was just an excuse to celebrate?”
He is so right and so wrong.
“Uh, I do prefer you see it that way than the other, less fun way.” She lets out a faint laugh.
“What do you mean?” He rests both his hands on his hips, leaning in towards her. “What’chu hiding?”
“She’s leaving.” You widen your eyes a little when you hear Toji deadpanning from the armchair he’s sprawled on.
You thought you would be the one to break the news to Satoru if Maki couldn’t bring herself to explain properly.
“The best music conservatories are in Europe.”
Suguru lets out a low gasp with the realization and Satoru remains there, leaning in, staring at Maki over the rims of his sunglasses with both hands on his hips, like a statue.
She blinks and squints at him when he doesn’t move for a few seconds, but then he straightens his back and throws his head back, letting out an annoyed groan.
“Where is it?” He finally asks, and by his tone you know he’s trying to see what can be arranged to bring her back to the shows. “How far?”
“Glasgow.” She mutters, sounding almost disappointed. “I thought about it for a while, but I need to do it. Even if it means I won’t be able to be with the band for some time. Maybe forever.”
The last part comes out lowly, softly. Another squeeze on your hand.
“I’ll come visit at least once a year, but it’s not enough to keep me in the band.”
There is a moment of silence and maybe mutual realization.
Satoru falls on his haunches on the same spot he was standing still moments ago. Suguru, who is now sitting properly on the couch, is fidgeting with his thumb ring between his fingers.
Toji is there, chilling on the armchair, seemingly unbothered.
“We’re gonna need to find another drummer.” You finally speak, your voice almost cracks. “I can take care of it since I won’t need to get busy finding another roommate. That’s already taken care of.”
Suguru’s eyes meet yours and he nods in appreciation. Another warm smile, but his eyes are sorrowful.
Maki is probably the actual glue of the band.
She was the one to bring you all together, to talk to people and gather the ones interested in making it happen. Even Toji was convinced to join the band by her.
Her leaving will take a toll on everyone’s lives, and you all seem to know that really well.
“So we’re changing the name of the band.” Satoru decides out of nowhere, still crouched and sitting on his heels, forearms resting on his knees. “Without Maki we’re no longer the same band. Therefore, this incarnation of us ends here. Gods Beneath dies tonight.”
He raises a hand to rub his jaw for a moment, humming. “No one can, nor will replace you.” His other hand reaches Maki’s calf and squeezes it lightly before letting go.
She gives him an amused smirk before shooting you a glance that you know means here we go again.
“We’re finding a new drummer, alright, and it will be the start of a new band... And no more covers.”
You open your mouth, ready to ask what’s the difference between this band and the new one besides the drummer, but Maki — knowing you too well and also knowing how Satoru will take any opportunity to ramble on until no one is left awake — is quicker than you and with an elbow nudge she prevents you from granting everyone there a big, big explanation of why his was the right and ethic way of looking at the situation.
So instead you go check on your new messages from the past hour or so.
Hey, future roomie! Maki told me you need a drummer now? I know someone. Ryoumen Sukuna. You’ve probably seen him on campus — big guy, tattoos, piercings, scar on his face? Plays like a demon.
You do know who he’s talking about. Of course you do! You’d spotted him more than once in music theory classes, and once in the bar enjoying — debatable — the show last night.
That guy who never spoke, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, who carried himself like the lecture was an inconvenience.
Ryoumen Sukuna.
That name rings a bell but you’re not sure why, so you search for it on the internet on your phone.
Ryomen Sukuna who’d walked off stage mid-song in a viral clip that had been circulating the internet just a few weeks ago.
He is — was — drummer of Black Halberd, a hard rock band that used to play on lots of festivals.
They’re kind of big on the scene and you remember some show houses unbooking Gods Beneath upon Black Halberd accepting their invitation to play.
Did he actually leave the band mid show and didn’t go back? That’s cold.
You stare at Yuji’s message.
The thought of working with someone unpredictable was… a little unsettling.
But your next gig is in two and a half weeks. Satoru is already rambling about killing the band and rebirthing a new one.
And you need a new drummer.
Notes:
***I'm reviewing these first chapters and correcting some minor mistakes, mostly gramatical ones. The ones I already reviewed will be checked in the end notes :')
Next Chapter contains Sukuna's POV, I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 3: Waking the Demon
Summary:
The infamous drummer of Black Halberd walks off mid show.
Notes:
Sukuna POV
tw: blood, cursing
Chapter Text
Waking the Demon
Sukuna POV
The neon sign outside the show house displays — in red, curvy letters — the name of the establishment; Underground Harajuku Club.
UHC for short.
It’s quite a big place, and it’s already rammed with people. His eyes scan the space, unimpressed. The ceiling is low, a chaotic web of black pipes and chains dangling. Dim, crimson lanterns cast a low glow over a long wooden bar and the predictable collection of punks and goths that make up the crowd.
There’s already a line of people ordering drinks, either for themselves or the people waiting for them in a booth with worn leather seats. The tables are packed up, and the main floor is crowded with people dancing drunkenly to the faint beat they have been playing before the main show.
Black Halberd is playing tonight, in a few minutes actually.
Sukuna looks up just to realize that even the damn mezzanine is packed — how can the VIP area be so full?
Do they ever get this loaded or it’s just because the band agreed to play there after a brief unannounced hiatus? Either way the night seems like it’s going to be chaotic.
Kenjaku has contact with countless good promoters, and since they announced Black Halberd would be playing at the UHC this night tickets sold out almost immediately. Sukuna has the slight impression the house is overpacked, maybe the VIPs paid a little bit more to take part in the comeback show even when there were no more tickets left. Who knows.
He ignores the main floor entirely, moving through the side of the place with an unnerving purpose toward a heavy black curtain tucked beside the stage. He sweeps it aside and goes down the long, narrow, grimy staircase.
The backstage is not actually in the back of the stage, it’s underground and it stinks of weed, old liquor and sweat. The floor is sticky and the room is unventilated — no windows whatsoever — becoming hotter and more claustrophobic by the hour.
Yet that isn’t even the worst place they had to settle down to prepare for a show.
They’re currently on a popularity rise, Mahito and Kenjaku have invested a lot on marketing, promoters and networking — booking gigs, opening shows for more famous and bigger bands, even indulging in a few free presentations in public places every once in a while to gather new fans.
Most of their fanbase is made of people who enjoy them for the characteristic hard sound and heavy breakdowns, as well as their war, corruption and gory themed lyrics — but some people enjoy them purely for the looks of a the members.
Black Halberd has an indecent number of fangirls and devotees that go an extra mile just for the chance to spend a night out with the boys, and — more than once — they took advantage of that.
Why wouldn’t they? Isn’t getting free pussy and endless worship some of the biggest appeals of starting a band?
For Sukuna this was more than obvious.
“You’re on in ten!” A short, blue haired staff member of the club announces from the doorframe, earning almost immediately a charming smile and a wink from Kenjaku, who’s currently standing among the other three band members, trying their best to become a massive pain in the ass just minutes before the show. “We’re just finishing up with the stage.”
“Thank you so much, love.” They purr at her, so she bows her head slightly to hide the redness relentlessly crawling up her face and soon rushes back through the corridor she came from, then upstairs, vanishing in seconds.
And Kenjaku is immediately back on their bullshit.
“Anyway, this is the new playlist I just put together. The house is full, Jogo got some pretty impressive people to join us in the mezzanine and so did I. Lots of VIPs in the house today, babes.”
Kenjaku flicks their eyes to Sukuna and opens their cellphone, showing him — and then the rest of the band the new order of the songs they just decided by themself to put together.
The band had already decided beforehand to play a specific set that extolled every single member in one or more songs. It was one of the best playlists and they usually went with it when they had to actually play for the moneybags.
Why is Kenjaku trying to fuck up his patience even before they step on the stage?
“Let’s not burn our chance of getting noticed and picked by a nice, rich agent just so we can feed into our own egos, okay?”
Mahito nods in agreement within a heartbeat, checking the strings of his guitar right away, avoiding direct eye contact with either.
Jogo shrugs and rolls his eyes, knowing how exhausting it would be to engage in an argument with Kenjaku before a show.
Sukuna, however, is done with their perpetual need of control.
Nobody has elected Kenjaku as a band leader, why the fuck would they think that shit was gonna stick?
“We’re not changing the whole order we agreed on just because of your bitching and moaning.”
He growls the words and pushes himself off the chair he was sitting on, reaching Kenjaku in less than three steps.
When put face to face it’s easier to notice how Sukuna is taller than them. Not only that but broader, too. While Kenjaku has more delicate features, a lean body and a nearly feminine structure, Sukuna is jacked. Every muscle of his body seems to be cautiously sculpted and the black ink makes them stand out even more.
kenjaku raises their face to maintain eye contact, trying to keep that resting bitch face.
Nothing is said for a while. The room seems too silent, like every sound around them came to a sudden halt.
A smug grin curls up on Sukuna’s lips as he finally notices Kenjaku’s brows furrowing further and the corner of their mouth twitching. They swallow dryly.
Good.
“No time for pouting, princess. Suck it up and let’s play.”
And so they did.
Kenjaku seems to be keeping the original setlist so far, and by the time they tore into the third song, the air was already thick with sweat, heat, and static from the crowd and the stage altogether.
People are screaming and howling, beer is flying around the moment drunk shitheads join the pit with their glasses still in hand, a general chaos — just the way it’s supposed to be.
The way he likes it.
The stage’s floorboards vibrate nonstop beneath the force of Sukuna’s drums.
He has each strike sending a shudder through the wood like aftershocks of an earthquake.
His sticks snap again and again against snares and the cymbals, the kick pedals hammer under his boots like a frenetic heartbeat.
Kenjaku unleashed a furious scream into the microphone on the song’s breakdown as Mahito shreds through his guitar chords and Jogo plucks steadily on his bass strings, slapping his thumb over them rhythmically.
Sukuna isn’t playing for the crowd at this point anymore.
He’s playing for himself.
Their screams, their fists in the air, the chaos below the stage, the mosh pit — none of it seems to reach him once he gets into the zone.
Like some kind of trance.
He is playing for the rush, for that wild fire in his veins that no stage light or spotlight could ever touch.
He’s able to unleash his rage, frustrations and every single feeling he doesn’t want to deal with when he’s playing like that.
It's fucking therapeutic.
It feels like a frenzied bloodlust that’s only satiated by exhausting himself on stage.
Or like an intoxicating sensation that only playing in a full house with a crowd of people screaming for him, singing and relishing in the music could bring.
He feels like a god being worshipped.
And he gets so fucking high on this sensation.
Time dissolves and utterly loses meaning when he’s hitting the drums like that.
There is no club, no stage, no crowd — only the rhythm consuming him, dragging him deeper with every furious strike.
That’s the sort of trance only few things can break.
Alas, Kenjaku is one of those few things.
“We’re skipping the next track. Keep it tight. The audience doesn’t need your seven-minute ego trip, Kuna.”
They say casually into the mic and let out a faint laugh as if this is all part of an agreement made beforehand between them.
The pit calms down between songs, so people are normally a bit more composed and attentive by now.
A few phones come up, laughter ripples, the crowd thinking it was stage banter.
But Sukuna doesn’t stop at Kenjaku’s suggestion.
He rolls straight into the opening beat of the cut song, grin slicing across his face, teeth bared, daring anyone to follow.
The drums drown out Kenjaku’s voice in a second, filling the club like artillery fire for much of the crowd’s delight.
It is a vicious display, arms rising and falling, a powerful pound there, a sharp tap, his foot pumping the kick drum pedal, sweat flying from his brow.
It feels too good to stop.
And the band is dragged along, following his lead.
He knows Kenjaku is fuming, but still they sing and play along like the good little bitch they are.
Kenjaku stalks to the kit at some point mid-song, leaning down between verses until his lips could meet Sukuna’s ear.
“You’re replaceable, Kuna. Know your place. Onstage and off. Don’t forget who writes the script here.”
Sukuna’s grin widens at their soft, venomous tone. He looks like a demon smiling.
Not with anger, with rapture.
And suddenly he stops.
With one accurate strike of his hand he sends the cymbals and snares flying off easily.
Raising his hand to his face, he licks the blood from his split knuckle and lets out a dark laugh that carries over the microphone of a mortified Kenjaku that suddenly feels like they’re way too close, stepping back quickly.
The show house falls silent, realizing something is not quite right.
Sukuna rises from his seat, walking around the kit to regain his proximity with Kenjaku, being able to speak properly into their mic.
“Replace me, then. Let’s see who burns faster.” his tone is heavy with malice.
And with that, he tosses both sticks into the crowd like offerings. And people rush, jump and fight to grab them.
He kicks the snare so it topples with a crash, cymbals still shrieking.
Not a trace of rage in his actions — pure theater.
He gave the audience a show, and they watched almost without blinking in fear of losing something important.
The crowd roars like animals after a moment, half in shock, half enthralled.
Mahito shreds nonsense into the air, laughing, feeding off the collapse.
Jogo freezes mid-note.
Kenjaku’s smile falters just for a moment as they watch him leaving.
Sukuna don’t look back.
He jumps from the stage down, parting the pit like a blade, the sea of people surging to touch him.
Cameras catch the smirk etched across his face, untouchable, drunk on the chaos he’d unleashed.
*****
The hallway now reeks of beer on top of everything else. The walls are rattling with the muffled bass of a band still trying to finish without him.
How pathetic.
Sukuna could have gone home, but he wouldn’t miss the aftershow for anything in the world.
To miss Kenjaku’s face as they realize they fucked up big time? Absolutely not.
He sits on a broken flight case, legs spread wide, forearms resting on his thighs, sweat crawling down the black tattoos inked into his skin. He sweeps his hands through his hair, pushing it back just before noticing the bass has now fully stopped.
They finally gave up.
His knuckles are raw, still bleeding where the rim split them, and he sucks the iron taste without flinching, sighing heavily and realizing he would have to fix that at some point before playing again.
Both his hand and his kit.
But what were a few hundred bucks compared to the mayhem and impression he caused? Nothing at all.
Completely worth the cost.
Jogo storms in first, bass still slung over his shoulder.
“What the fuck was that, Sukuna? You humiliate us in front of everyone?!” His voice is cracking already. So fucking weak.
A low laugh rumbles in his chest as he lights a cigarette he grabbed from the crumpled wallet in his back pocket, taking a slow drag, smoke already curling from his grin.
“Humiliate? No, no. I gave them a show. They’ll remember me long after they forget your sloppy bassline, Jogo.”
Jogo’s fists clenches, but he doesn’t move.
He never does.
Mahito slips in next, still strung out on adrenaline, guitar strapped across his chest, hands swaying and gesturing as he barged in talking loudly.
“You should’ve seen their faces. That walk-off? Fucking glorious.” He leans against the wall, eyes glittering. “Kenjaku’s going to eat you alive for it, though.”
Sukuna finally looks up angain, eyes catching Mahito’s. He’s a prick, slick and a pushover, siding easily with anyone that gives him a little attention.
No loyalty, no honor, just senseless barking.
At least he is good with his fingers.
And with his mouth.
Sukuna takes another drag, pondering whether or not he should give a fuck.
“Let them try. They should be grateful I didn’t bury that mic down their throat in front of everyone.”
Mahito laughs, too loud, too long, feeding once again on Sukuna’s cruelty.
Fucking leech.
He’d love to see another big fight between the two of them — a big clash of huge egos, it was the reason behind the last unannounced hiatus in the first place.
His gaze also lingers a beat too long on Sukuna’s lips, then chest, sliding slowly to his abs, lips wet with some freaky thought that is going through that fucked up mind of his.
Sukuna quickly catches on his wicked intentions and huffs a cloud of smoke towards him to grab his attention back to the crimson eyes searing through his face.
“Don’t look at me like that unless you mean to act on it.”
Jogo, who’s still there but being completely ignored, grumbles something about them daring to start fucking in the backstage again to see what would happen.
The air tightens.
Mahito grins and takes half a step closer, but Kenjaku’s shadow stretches in the doorway, freezing him on the spot.
They don’t come in, just lean against the wooden frame, arms crossed over their chest, that serpent’s smile coiled across their face.
“Enjoy your little tantrum, Kuna? Because you’re done here. You’re out.” they seethe, the smile falls into a seriousness Sukuna is already familiar with. They’re furious and trying their best not to let their voice shake as they keep talking. “Your bullshit cost us a lot of money and our image today. You threw away your throne.”
Sukuna, seemingly unbothered, lets that uncomfortable silence linger for a while
Then he pushes himself up from the broken flight case to walk towards Kenjaku, exhaling smoke right against their face and waiting for it to slowly vanish into thin air.
“You look nervous, like you’re about to puke. Don’t. Ruins the floor.” he coos at them before giving two brief taps against their cheek with the still bloodied back of his hand, tainting their pale, sweaty skin.
Kenjaku looks livid, like they’re about to strangle him, but Sukuna is already moving through the door, shoulder bumping into theirs and soon he vanishes from their view.
*****
The drum kit is still wreckage on the stage floor. A tom lies sideways, skin torn like a wound, cymbals bent out of shape from the kick that toppled them.
People are saying Sukuna lost control that night.
He didn’t.
He chose to end it like that.
Nothing thrills him more than an audience caught between awe and fear, unsure if they just witnessed a concert or an act of violence.
Clips circulate nonstop, headlines feeding on his name: Black Halberd Drummer Implodes Onstage. Is Sukuna Unstoppable or Unemployable?
The answer is obvious. Unstoppable. Always.
Kenjaku clings to the story that they pushed Sukuna out for being unreliable, too explosive, too violent and unpredictable, spinning it as a strategy to gain sympathy.
Mahito keeps in contact with him, they’re very compatible when it comes to carnal encounters — the collapse and chaos excites Mahito even more, he doesn’t care whether it’s staged or real. And Sukuna enjoys having a hole to fuck every once in a while.
Jogo avoids his eyes whenever they cross paths, guilty for choosing the other two instead of the one friend he had.
Still a pathetic coward it seems.
Sukuna doesn’t lose sleep over them.
When he wants company, he takes it easily, Mahito seems to always be available for him.
When he needs isolation, no one is there to bother him since Yuji moved out of their family house to a campus apartment.
What matters now is the itch in his hands that’s starting to annoy him, the restlessness cracking through his knuckles.
It’s been what? Two days? He’s already feeling a hint of anxiety growing inside his chest.
Fuck.
And anxiety turns into something worse if he lets it build up for too long.
The thoughts of spending who knows how much time without playing would eat him alive.
That need of sticks in his grip again, the floor trembling under his double bass, people chanting his name.
He needed the chaos of the shows once again. The adoration. The noise. He needed to be worshipped again.
That’s the only thing that he can compare to raw power.
But even more than that, he needed release.
Now his phone won’t stop buzzing.
Promoters. Journalists. Parasites. Everyone wants a slice of the calamity.
They don’t care about Black Halberd.
They care about him.
They want to keep feeding the fire until there’s nothing else to burn.
Sukuna takes a drag from his cigarette, splayed on his living room couch. He exhales the smoke toward the ceiling slowly. The sun has already set, the lights are off and the pale light of the moon is the only thing keeping his living room slightly illuminated.
Is this melancholy?
Nah.
Humming, a sharp grin shows up as he thinks once again about the whole situation.
Scandal doesn’t bury him. It builds the myth.
It’s amusing how people are easy to entertain.
He knows it's gonna be hard as fuck to fit in again after all this mess. But he isn’t done. Not even close.
And by the morning of the third day after the show, the videos went finally viral on multiple platforms:
“MALEVOLENT SPECTACLE! — BLACK HALBERD DRUMMER DESTROYS HIS KIT, WALKS OFF LAUGHING.”
Not disgrace.
Not disaster.
Spectacle.
Exactly like Sukuna imagined.
Chapter 4: Telomeres
Notes:
Maki is packing up to leave, and Satoru has some ideas he needs you to keep quiet about — at least for now.
tw: mention of pill/drug abuse, sleep paralysis, night terror
Chapter Text
Telomeres
Satoru says it so casually you almost think he’s joking.
“Gods Beneath is dead. We’ll bury it when Maki leaves. Let’s start from there.”
You blink, waiting for him to at least give you some sort of extra context after that.
None comes.
His sunglasses catch the light of his now too-bright living room, — the big lights get powered on at night — making it impossible to tell where he’s looking at from where you’re perched on the big couch.
Toji went home already, Suguru is upstairs, presumably sleeping in Satoru’s bed with Goma since he agreed to spend the night to compensate for Friday.
Maki also left, but you stayed there even though you can feel your brain giving up on forming coherent thoughts.
You’re probably useless to brainstorm new lyrics right now, but he insists you stay a little longer so he can share a few of his insights with you. And you find it a little difficult to say no to him when he tells you how you’re the only one that can extract the best of his ideas and make them work as they should.
“Our next gig is already out of the table since we’re killing the band, so let’s allow Black Halberd to sweep in and grab it like the wretched little vultures they are.” he spits the name of the band like it’s poisonous. He resumes his talking and walking, pacing slowly through his living room as he cracks his neck and his knuckles, stopping one in place for a second just to stretch his arms up and let out a heavy sigh.
Your lips curl in a small smile when you hear that, thinking about what would be his reaction finding out who you’re considering for Maki’s spot.
“Right, but what do you need me to pry out from your chaotic little head this time?”
Your eyelids feel heavy and you think of maybe asking him to dim the bright lights a little, but you’re afraid you’re gonna end up snoozing mid explanation. It’s best to focus on Satoru’s words and on his endless walking and talking as much as you can.
So you have your eyes fixed on him. And on his hands. You find it a little easy to keep awake when you pay attention to how much he gestures while he talks and paces.
Cocking a brow, you notice his hands shaking ever so slightly when they’re finally resting by the sides of his body.
He’s also tired.
The exhaustion is crawling in, but he won’t admit it until he’s done talking about what he has planned, so there’s no use suggesting you two continue this conversation tomorrow.
If he has an idea now, now is the time to talk about it.
“I’ll be needing you to work extra hard on a few things this week and the next to come.” His tone is almost apologetic. “I also need you to trust me and keep this next part just between us both, okay, sugar?”
Another secret.
Why did people insist on confiding things to you so easily?
You don’t recall ever telling anyone their secrets would be safe with you, nor you remember telling anyone you’re comfortable holding information from others — especially from your friends.
Yet, for the second day in a row you’re caught in that same position.
“I don’t know, Satoru…” You start to speak, uncertainty swirling inside your chest as you think of how the others would feel.
Shifting uncomfortably on his couch, you feel your left leg start to bounce a little bit, you begin to overthink the situation already, biting the inside of your cheeks when the cold little finger of uncertainty touches your little damaged brain.
But Satoru, moving from the place he previously stood to walk towards you, kneels in front of the couch you’re sitting on, basically sinking down on one knee between your legs.
Your full attention is on him, and even your anxious leg stops for a moment.
His hands reach for yours and he holds them gently between his own. Leaning his torso slightly in and with a pout on his lips, he barely needs to tilt his head up to look you in the eyes from there, his bright baby blues finding yours with a silent plea.
Who gave this menace of a man such beautiful eyes?
“... Okay, sure, I’ll do it, whatever it is.” You concede, partially unaware of the dangers of agreeing blindly to anything coming from him. Embarrassment is flushing your face, so you avert your eyes from his. “But please remember I have a life and college work to do —ah!”
As you start to ask for a little consideration before he starts ordering you around, you feel him getting up from the floor and letting go of your hands, but instead of acting normal — again, bold of you to assume he would — he presses his knee on the edge of the couch between your legs and just lets his weight fall on top of you, arms wide open to squish you into a sloppy, and then very tight hug.
“I knew you wouldn’t let me down!” His words are muffled by your hair, his lips are pressed against the side of your head and he leaves a kiss there before rolling to the side to occupy the spot next to a very dumbfounded you.
Are you just anxious with so much proximity or are you a praise junkie?
There’s still one arm casually resting along the back of the couch behind you, the tips of his fingers brushing and tapping sometimes against your shoulder as he speaks.
For the moments you were squeezed between him and the couch, you could feel how warm he is, and how soothing it felt to have his weight pressing you down — even in that uncomfortable way — you felt like you could fall asleep right there.
But you also noticed how hard and fast his heart was beating. To be fair, your heart was probably pounding like crazy too, but your situation is a bit different.
Right?
Satoru is the type of person that will always claim to be the most confident and most composed man alive, but that is the biggest façade he holds to this day.
He's a very agitated, worried and frantic person trying to fit in a pacific shell.
Because of the way you grew up, the things you’ve been through, the trauma and constant need to be aware of everything — it’s almost too easy to notice the small things giving away the true way people feel through their behavior.
A little twinge on the corner of his lips, eyebrow cocking slightly, a squint of his eyes, his hands shaking before he shoves them in his pants’ pockets, the way he flicks his eyes — all the little things that are always there, but people don’t seem to notice.
They just rely on what they’re told.
You don’t feel like you can do it.
This kind of conversation, however, can’t happen now.
You’re too tired, he’s too hyped and too tired at the same time. And amidst all that yapping, you actually want to ask him why.
Why kill something that’s working?
Why throw a funeral for a band that just played its first original song to real applause? Almost a standing ovation. Why not announce Maki’s leaving and another drummer stepping in? It’s simpler, easier.
Satoru Gojo doesn’t do average.
That’s a thing he says many times.
Despite wanting to, you don’t need to ask.
You decide to trust Satoru and his megalomania once again.
You’ve heard his ideas before a million times — wild, messy bursts that sound unhinged until you realize he’s a few steps ahead of everyone else.
But this? This is a bit bigger.
This is setting fire to the old scaffolding and building something people are yet to see.
You feel lucky to be part of it.
*****
The clock on his wall marks thirty minutes past midnight now.
You thought you’d be asleep by this time, yet you catch yourself currently nodding eagerly and agreeing with the plans he speaks of so naturally.
Just a couple of hours ago there was nothing more than exhaustion and a little anxiety swirling inside you, but that tiredness seems to have vanished completely, leaving space for a new born enthusiasm that fills the entire room as he hooks you in his fanciful plans.
Being this close to him is still a little… foreign for you, but not in a bad way — Satoru has one of his legs resting on top of your thigh now, his arm still resting on the couch’s back, around your shoulders, and his long fingers twisting a strand of your hair as he talks nonstop.
Satoru’s pupils look bigger than usual, the blackness nearly engulfing the crystalline blue.
Did he have some energy drink with the pizzas?
That would explain how agitated he is, but you vaguely remember him saying his body is a temple and energy drinks are a hard no.
But sugar is an big yes? So much for a temple, huh.
You also remember how alarmed you got when Maki told you upon meeting Satoru — the most high-spirited, energetic person you’ve ever met — that he didn’t drink coffee.
You’re yet to figure out if it’s due to unholy amounts of sugar that he keeps his spirits high and energy even higher.
Whenever you try to tell him to wait a bit or slow down so you can note things properly, he seems to get a little more uneasy, maybe frustrated, groaning like all the information and ideas will kill him if he doesn’t let them out immediately.
It’s understandable, he is very excited with the future he has started planning in the three hours he had to think about it since hearing of Maki’s departure, but he’s not usually… this frantic, almost frenzied, when he’s just excited.
Perhaps he’s so mentally worn, yet so inspired, that his brain is frying.
Everyone calls him a natural born genius for easily expressing his ideas and ambitions from a very young age.
He’s been born in a wealthy family so there were many opportunities for him in life, Juilliard — which is the conservatory he attended — included. It doesn’t take away his merit, though. He is a brilliant man and you know superficially about the pressure his family puts on him to take on the family business instead of actually following his rock band dreams.
It’s really impressive how much focus he needs so he doesn’t let any of his plans and projects die on the shore, but you start to think there’s a little bit more to his steadiness than meets the eyes.
“And what, Satoru? We just show up in disguises and hope nobody notices?” You snap, sounding a little mean, but that’s just the exhaustion catching up once again.
“Exactly.” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, poking softly the tip of your nose with his index finger.
“People don’t notice half as much as you think they do. A little fabric, some paint, new logo, new name — boom.” He spreads his arms, letting go of that strand of hair that now lays on your shoulder in a tiny curl. “We’re going viral, baby! A new band comes out of nowhere and becomes an instant hit!”
His optimism is fascinating. Or is that just raw, rampant madness?
And you know better than to even think he’s kidding.
He’s dead serious despite that crazed expression he’s carrying right now.
He stares for a while into some abstract point in front of you two, envisioning his ideas being a complete success with not a slight possibility of failure.
And hell, he may be right.
Will you indulge his delirium?
You blink, thinking for a whole second if you should perhaps raise your concerns.
But then he turns to you once more, both hands cupping your cheeks — making your lips become a small pout — just to make you look at him as he lowers his head a bit to stare at you from over his sunglasses rims.
His pale hair brushing against your forehead tickles a little.
“You’ll design it. All of it.”
It’s not a question.
You feel a manic laugh trying to rise from the depths of your core first, then the weight of it sinks onto your shoulders and responsibility clings onto you like wet clothes.
All the designs. Outfits. Concepts. Tone. Arts. Key colors. Band name. Brand.
The whole look of a band that doesn’t exist yet.
And, of course, the new lyrics.
You want to cry.
Satoru’s brain is an overflowing drawer of half-lines and jumbled metaphors, and you’re the only one he trusts to sort them into something that breathes.
You’re not letting him down.
“I’ll do it.”
You also have a few ideas of your own that may help — half-complete lyrics you wrote as a teenager, mostly about feelings you had, about situations you’ve been through, about… you.
Maybe you can use it for this new band’s whole thing? If Satoru approves, you think you can make it work.
He’s utterly pleased with you and you feel a very warm, fuzzy feeling when you look at his giant smile.
“I already have three assignments due next week, so just...” You sigh.
He chuckles. “Add four more, then.”
Bastard.
*****
You end up sleeping in.
Maki called you at some point between two and three in the morning, worried you hadn’t come home yet, but Satoru took the phone mid-call from you to tell her you’re spending the night, visibly not giving her time to respond before ending the call and tossing you your phone back.
You’re not really a pushover — most of the time you like to think you’re not — but you’re so, so very tired and he has so many rooms in that big house of his… so you don’t feel like a real burden by spending the night just this once.
“I can drive you home tomorrow morning, I’m just too tired to take you home right now and there’s no way I’m letting you call an uber at this time. Too dangerous, can’t trust men these days.” He concludes with a nod, getting up from the couch and reaching out his hand to help you up.
“You can shower before sleeping if you want, the guestroom is a suite and I can lend you spare pajamas if you don’t mind them being a little big for you.” Going upstairs with him, you’re now realising he never let go of your hand, softly pulling you along as he leads the way.
A puny smile unfolds on your lips with the way your fingers are intertwined with his. You enjoy the way he shows affection a lot more than you think. Just like Maki, he feels safe, his touches also feel safe. They would never hurt you.
You two stop for a moment in front of his bedroom’s open door, gazing at his king size bed where Suguru and Goma are sprawled, as comfortable as they can be, occupying all the space their bodies allow them to.
“He’s gonna be so grumpy when you wake him up to make space for you.” You chuckle softly as Satoru groans in realization. You’re glad you’re not gonna be the one dealing with his temper tantrum.
“I’ll grab you something to wear, you can go make yourself comfortable in the bedroom by the end of the corridor,” he tilts his chin toward the closed door, pointing the way, and lets go of your hand.
His guestroom is almost as big as his own bedroom, but you can explore it better in the morning. As of tonight you’re craving a hot shower and the embrace of the mattress.
You take your sweet time under the hot stream of water, letting it run down your body while you decompress and take a deep breath, finally allowing yourself to feel how tired you really are.
There’s no recollection of what you had originally planned for your saturday, or if there was anything at all you wanted to do before being fully consumed by the band’s obligations, and then by Satoru.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to take a week off some time, but that’s something you can’t afford right now. It’s unimaginable for you to leave the boys unattended just because you’re a little bit burned out.
What would they do without you?
You’re pulled out of your thoughts by a subtle knock on the door.
“I got you some clothes, gonna leave them on the bed.” Satoru’s voice is muffled by the shower’s noise but you acknowledge him with a ‘thanks!’ before resuming it.
You don’t know how much time you spent there soaking in the hot water, but you shouldn’t be taking half hour showers at other people’s houses anyway, you’re better than that.
There’s a — really soft — towel waiting for you as you step out of the box and into the bathmat. The fabric caresses your body as you dry yourself fully before wrapping it around your torso.
You so needed this.
The promised clothes are waiting for you on the bed as you step out of the bathroom, but so is Satoru.
He’s in what you suppose it’s his sleeping clothes — plain white t-shirt and dark gray sweatpants — brushing his teeth with one hand and scrolling down on his phone with the other.
His eyes raise from the screen and fix on you. He stops the brushing for a moment and stares, eyebrows raised in what you assume is surprise, and then a faint blush flushes the bridge of his nose.
There’s a ten seconds silence of awe and then acknowledgement before you decide what to do.
Which is to slowly walk backwards into the bathroom, not interrupting the eye contact for a second, and close the door.
Your skin feels hot and you’re sure your face is glowing red.
Satoru’s awkward laugh echoes and he speaks loud enough for you to hear ‘Sorry, sugar. I'm leaving now.’ before walking out.
You hear his bare feet against the wooden floor as he steps away, but only dare to reopen the bathroom door when you hear the gentle click of the door latch.
Peeking out for a second, now making sure it’s just you in the bedroom, you rush to grab the clothes and go back inside the bathroom, where you get dressed properly, not taking any more chances.
The clothes are kind of big on you, but they’re really comfortable.
He lent you a black band t-shirt and white sweat shorts, the latter being mostly hidden under the oversized shirt, but it doesn’t matter now that you’re crawling on the mattress and getting ready to sleep, burying yourself in cozy blankets and resting your head on the inviting pillow.
Then, there’s a knock.
“Come in?” You sound unsure.
Did he forget something?
Entering the room, Satoru has a steamy mug in one hand and your notebook in the other.
Your brows furrow when he hands you the mug before crawling on the bed with you, — it’s a queen size bed, there’s plenty of space — sitting cross legged by your side. You’re now sitting up to grab the mug, your back against the cushioned headboard.
Lychee tea with milk and honey. You didn’t know how much you needed this until you took a gulp of it, almost rolling back your eyes out of cheer delight.
Feels like being hugged from inside.
No, that’s weird, never say that out loud.
You let out a satisfied moan, almost purring in contentment.
“You thought we were done?” He simpers at you, but the face you made upon hearing those words made him quickly backpedal. “I’m joking, you can rest… as soon as you allow me to write a few notes on the designs you drew so I don’t forget what we talked about.”
“Just don’t mess it up.” A soft mumble leaves your lips, making the steam rising from the hot tea swirl before you take another sip, humming happily.
Your eyes are too heavy and the dim light of the bedroom won’t let you fight the sleepiness for much longer. “You… didn’t want to wake Suguru, did you?”
“Nope.” He admits and you scoff lowly, shaking your head softly.
He now scribbles and makes small notes around the designs he likes.
You only get a glimpse of what he’s writing, but soon you give up, focusing on finishing your tea and placing the empty mug on the bedside table before sliding down and laying your head on the pillow once again.
“Sweet dreams,” he croons. You mumble a drowsy ‘g’night’ back before turning to the side and leaving him to scrawl on your notebook, hearing only his occasional deep sighs and the gentle scratch of the pencil tip against the paper as you slip in the world of dreams.
You don’t remember your dreams tonight, nor do you have an episode — probably because of the exhaustion and the reaffirming company.
And how glad you are that you don’t need to explain to Satoru that most nights are really terrible and your nightmares are usually loud.
*****
By the time you wake up you notice a few things.
More weights than just your own are pressed down the mattress.
Huh?
You sit up on your elbows to look at it, bewildered.
Satoru is sleeping by your left side, on top of the blankets, notebook open and resting over his chest, his right arm bent and forearm covering his closed eyes.
Suguru is curled up under the blankets, by your right side, both hands tucked between his left cheek and the pillow.
Goma, — she’s also there! — however, is sprawled across the three of you, belly up, slowly blinking and yawning when she notices you’re awake.
“Morninnnn’” Suguru drawls, slowly unraveling and opening his eyes to look at your seemingly very awake self.
What time is it? And when did the slumber party move to this room?
“Too early.” Satoru tuts as he lowers the arm covering his face to then throw his left arm across your torso, pulling you back down to lay your head on the pillow once again. “Sunday… we don’t get up ‘til noon.” He grumbles — Suguru, submitting to the host’s wishes, closes his eyes once again and breathes deeply, apparently falling back asleep just like that.
“Don’t I have a say in this?” You ask quietly, feeling your skin flushed with heat when they huddle up towards you.
You can feel their breaths brushing ever so slightly against the skin of your neck, Suguru almost nestling his face on the curve of your shoulder and Satoru now moving to be cozy under the blankets, doing the same thing.
“No.” both answer in unison.
Goma rolls and lets out another loud yawn before shifting to lay between you and Suguru, letting you get a whiff of her puppy breath.
With a huff you keep laying still, facing the ceiling as the lethargy slowly touches you again.
It’s okay, you can take today off and rest.
You already have a full plate of things you got to figure out in a week or so. Sleeping in with these two won’t kill you.
Goma might, though.
You feel a rising pressure on your chest ripping you out of your slumber after who knows how many hours.
At first you got alarmed, fearing it was an episode starting.
But when your eyes pry open, you see that giant fluffball of a dog sitting on top of you.
Cold nose approaching as she sniffs your face, and a warm, moist feeling pressing on your cheek following the sniffs.
“Goma!” Calling her name only makes her more excited, driving her to lick your whole face.
You feel her entire body wagging along with her curly tail as she tap dances on top of you. “No, Goma! Stop baby-” Your arms are held captive under the covers as you coo at her, almost begging for this little menace to have mercy on you, but she only gives you some kind of release — allowing you to sit up on the bed — when she notices Suguru woke up again.
And she loves Suguru.
The rest of the day falls uneventful.
Satoru made you and Suguru pancakes for breakfast and drove you back to your apartment.
He also was nice enough to wash and dry your clothes at some point in the afternoon, allowing you to change before leaving.
You spent the rest of the evening helping Maki pack a few of her things up, leaving out just the necessary items to pass her last week. By doing so you can feel your energy being drained, as if your happiness was melting away with every item you placed in a cardboard box.
No time to go through the five stages of grief, babygirl.
You wonder how it's gonna be without Maki. Will your night terrors scare away Yuji? Will you be able to have a good night of sleep without slipping into a sleeping pills addiction?
This sunday night you decide to test it.
You ask Maki not to stay with you until you fall asleep. No texts, no calls, no nothing.
She tries talking you out of it, but you tell her you need to see if you can do it without taking something to shut you down completely.
*****
It’s five in the morning — you jolt awake, gasping, your heart hammering against your ribs, hair clinging to your sweaty face.
The room is empty, but the feeling of dread is a thick, choking fog.
Breathe.
You repeat over and over to yourself.
Just breathe.
You do.
It isn’t real.
Nothing was there.
But your body doesn't believe it.
Your heart is trying to escape your chest, and your skin is ice cold, still, your night gown is drenched in sweat and your face is damp and sticky with sleep-sweat and tears.
What was it this time?
That shadow creature crawling closer and closer in that unnatural, ungodly way?
It doesn't really matter, does it?
Felt real enough to have you probably screaming your lungs out and thrashing in your sleep.
Your first instinct is to grab your phone.
To call her just to hear her voice even though she’s in the next room.
But you don’t.
She won’t be there for much longer, you can’t burden her to babysit you when she has so much to accomplish overseas.
You keep calling her and then what?
She’s supposed to be always there for you? To stop her life to pick up your calls in the middle of the night just because you’re fucked up in the head? Damaged and unable to function properly?
Pathetic. Useless.
You hug your knees to your chest and try to steady your breath.
You wish your head wasn’t so mean.
You wish you could just be normal.
You wish his voice wasn’t always echoing inside your brain.
How are you supposed to close your eyes again?
The moment you do, it'll be waiting for you.
He will be waiting for you.
That feeling of being cemented to the sheets, your own mind a spectator to your horror.
You see the bottle on the nightstand.
Just take a pill.
But then… How about tomorrow night? And the night after?
Do you just drug yourself into a stupor every night for the rest of your life, all because the one person who made the shadows feel safe is moving an ocean away?
Chapter 5: Thread the Needle
Summary:
You're having a hell of a week, and at the end of it Maki will be finally going to Europe — and Yuji is moving in to be your new roomie.
Chapter Text
Thread the Needle
Monday.
You wake up early, it’s not even seven in the morning yet.
You’re so very tired, still exhausted from the little sleep you got last night.
A mug of black coffee and some PB&J sandwich are the only things holding you on your feet at college until lunch time.
You have Music Theory in the morning, a group lecture in the big auditorium, and you find it very hard not to fall asleep as soon as you sit down and get comfortable on the worn cushioned chair.
You endure it with eyes already red but wide open and your brain half functioning .
You got this.
At some point during the lecture you remember that this is one of the classes you have in common with Sukuna, so you catch yourself looking around the auditorium very surreptitiously, just to see if you spot his very characteristic pink hued hair poking from somewhere on the lower seat rows.
It would be nice if everything in your life just aligned perfectly and he sat right beside you, wouldn’t it?
Maybe you two could even engage in chit-chat, talk about your lives and become best friends forever.
You press the bottom of your palms against your closed eyes.
Why is everything so stressful? It's not even the middle of the week yet.
Every time you've seen him in class he looked like he would bark at anyone that dared approach him. You don't remember seeing teachers talking to him either, nor him going to them to make any questions regarding this class' projects.
And as unapproachable as he is, he’s your number one — actually, your only — choice for a replacement drummer for now.
Satoru and Suguru told you they don’t know anyone that would match the new band project.
Maybe you could ask Toji later, he could know someone.
There's still hope.
Knitting together, your brows let your thoughts leak into your face.
Utahime, one of the few colleagues you have on the campus, pokes you with her elbow, taking you off your own little world just to bring you back to this tiresome, terribly long class presentation.
The auditorium buzzes after the presentation is over.
Pages flipping, pencils scratching, the professor explaining something he has projected on the big whiteboard, but you're not interested enough to try to focus.
Not today.
You stare blankly at the document page open in front of you on your laptop screen, but all you can see are Satoru’s manic texts popping up one after the other in the notifications bar.
Toru:
The death of gods
rebirth in ashes
angels in masks!
Makes sense? Ofc it makes put that pen to work ☆
You want to throw away your laptop and your phone altogether.
What the fuck he’s talking about?
Instead, you sigh and sketch the outline of a wing in your notebook.
After your classes, you grab a protein shake to go and head to the record store for your shift at your half-time job.
Sometimes a shake is lunch.
The air smells like dust and old vinyl sleeves.
And you love it so much.
Mr. Takahashi grunts when you clock in, pushing a crate of dusty albums toward you.
“Sort these. No mistakes.”
His grumpiness is no problem for you, honestly.
He gave you a job when you really needed it even though he was pretty well taking care of the store on his own. You do everything you can to help him out, especially the heavy lifting and the tidying up.
And every day he brings you an obento with some fruits and a bottle of tea.
You told him once he didn't need to, but he told you that 'at his age he didn't do shit because he needs to, he does things because he wants to.'
And he brings you food because you remind him of his granddaughter.
His way of showing care reminds you of Toji a little bit. His grumpiness too. You smirk at the thought and go sort the albums.
You like the quiet of the store. The neat rows of vinyls and CDs. The ever so faint music playing on the old radio on the back, sometimes filled with static.
You even like the occasional student who comes in begging for obscure music sheets and albums no one has ever listened to, ever.
Later, taking your break in the backroom, you sit on a crate of unsold CDs, sketchbook open on your lap, pencil tapping against your knee.
You roll your eyes at Satoru’s notes — the ones he made yesterday in bed and you got to see only now — but now your pencil keeps moving, adjusting what you understand of the messy notes.
Wings. Fire. Masks. Robes.
Something interesting is emerging.
*****
Tuesday.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead in the music wing of your college.
It feels so loud, it’s like the low constant buzz is coming from inside your head and it makes you want to rip them off the ceiling with your bare hands.
Maybe you're too overstimulated and sleep deprived.
You recompose yourself, take a deep breathe.
It's fine. Everything is fine.
You need to find the damn papers about music business you worked on so hard and hand them over to Prof. Kento so he can take a look at them and give you some pointers before the due date.
As you scan your backpack the memory of Utahime telling you the professor's age comes back to your mind and makes you chuckle.
You had no idea he was younger than you when you told him you wanted to be as good as him when it came to business and managing your band by the time you reached his age — and in your defense he does seem older and more mature than most people you know, but you guess that's just what the stress and hard work does to a person.
And talking about stress, it's probably what's making your eyes twitch.
Maybe Suguru is right, college does make people start smoking or drinking. Sometimes both.
You have your shoulder pressed against the wall near the door to the teacher’s room and you’re aggressively digging in your bag for your sheets when you feel a shiver run down your spine.
The sensation of something tingling at your nape and wrapping around your neck.
You’re being observed.
You raise your head and turn it to look over your shoulder, ready to deal with someone asking what were you doing or what were you looking for, as if any of it was their business. You’re already fighting with some hypothetical person in your head, that’s never a good sign, is it?
But no one is near when you look around.
There’s only someone else in the hall, eyes transfixed on your back.
Sukuna.
He’s across the short hall, arms crossed over his chest, leaning his back against the wall, scar and black ink sharp under the light.
He’s just standing there, watching you from a distance with a stoic, undecipherable expression on his face.
This doesn’t feel like just gazing casually, it’s more like watching. Analyzing.
Those crimson eyes seemingly studying your every movement.
The eyeing sears through you. You shove your papers back into the folder quickly, forgetting you actually need to find something.
Your spine suddenly straightens and you cock your eyebrow, pivoting on your heels so your whole body is now facing in his direction.
His eyelids squint very subtly and there's a small curl forming in the corner of his mouth.
You refuse to be the first one to look away.
Yet, you do.
Prof. Kento opens the door just next to you and you’re forced to turn around and face him as he urges you to get in so you two can talk properly.
You’re pretty sure Sukuna sneered as soon as you lost at your own dumb game.
Back at the apartment after you got off work, Maki’s voice seeps through your bedroom’s wall.
She’s probably on another video call with someone you suppose is from Glasgow, — maybe her new roommate at the conservatory's campus or whatever — you notice her Japanese ever so slightly lilting into careful English.
You put your earbuds in to listen to some music before sleeping, but you still hear her laughter through the sound.
It’s bittersweet, really.
*****
Wednesday.
Yuji waves at you from across the same cafeteria you’ve met him for the first time, you take a glance at his tray piled too high with food and raise a brow.
That would explain how he has so much energy to burn between football games and his PE Major.
Megumi, — who if you remember well majors Criminal Justice, — trails after him, expression as flat as every other time you crossed his path, carrying only a bowl of miso soup on his tray.
They’re polar opposites, and yet every time you’ve seen Yuji for the past weeks, Megumi is there too.
It’s kind of funny, you think to yourself and chew on the straw of the melon frappe you’re having.
“Roomie to be!” Yuji greets you with a big smile, already sitting beside you. “I was thinking—when I move in, I’ll do the cooking, yeah? You’ll never have to touch instant ramen again.”
You don’t eat instant ramen usually, but the way he talks like it’s a five stars course meal, too hard to prepare and too troublesome, has you giggling.
Megumi gives him a side-eye.
“You don’t know how to cook.”
“I know enough.” Yuji scowls and shoves an entire nigiri in his mouth.
You hide your smile behind your frappe cup. It feels… safe, somehow, listening to them bicker like an old married couple.
Hopefully this is how it’s going to feel for as long as he lives with you. It would make the departure of your best friend a little easier.
Later, at the record store, a student from your class recognizes you from the band, somehow, and not from... the class.
“Hey—you’re in Gods Beneath, right? When’s your next gig?”
Your throat dries but you smile at him.
The band is already a decomposing corpse by now, but you can’t say that.
“Soon,” you lie. “Keep an eye out.”
*****
Thursday.
The orange and reddish rays pass through the window of the library as the sun sets lazily in the horizon.
You like that specific spot because of the view and the warmth of the sunlight caressing your skin. Your music history essay is due tomorrow, so you’ve been here for hours, fingers cramping as you type on your laptop and once in a while scribble something on the open notebook laying right beside it.
Your pen drifts to the margin, sketching Satoru’s newest “angel mask, but make it ritualistic” idea, when you feel it once again.
Shivers racing along your spine. Nape tingling.
That specific sensation of uneasiness.
Like someone standing too close.
You look up from your notebook’s screen just to catch Sukuna passing by your table.
Your eyes widen and you feel the breath catch in your throat.
He has one hand inside the pocket of his jacket, and the other casually brushes and taps his fingertips against the top of your table as he passes by it. Seems like an absentminded action, but you're sure it isn't. You're sure he's trying to mess with you.
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t stop. Not even acknowledges your presence.
But your chest tightens anyway, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
Yet, when the faint smell of his cologne mixed with the coppery smell of cigarettes hits your nose, you catch yourself turning your head to look at him.
It’s getting annoying.
You have too much on your plate right now, you don’t need another problem adding up.
Why do you feel so apprehensive when he’s around? You feel like he’s onto you, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to do something — like a predator rounding its prey, ready to attack.
But he did nothing to you. He doesn’t even talk to you.
Get your shit together, sweetheart. You're starting to sound crazy.
You’re back at the apartment after an uneventful evening at your half-time job, Maki leans on the counter, hair down and donning one of her prettiest pajamas, an all black set of silky pants and shirt with red buttons.
Looks like she’s ready to go to bed already.
“You’ll be okay, right? When I’m gone?”
You laugh, a little too loud for your own liking, a little too fake.
No. I’m already feeling miserable.
“Of course. Don’t be stupid.”
But your hand trembles when you set the empty mug down, and you know she notices.
*****
Friday.
The rehearsal room at Satoru’s feels a little bigger.
You know it’s just your imagination, though.
No drummer today, of course.
Satoru prompts everyone — Suguru at his right side, Toji at his left side — to hum the chords while he belts lyrics like he’s already performing at the Dome.
Maybe he finally went insane.
You’re sitting on the floor, on the usual corner, jotting down rhythms in your notebook, pretending this isn’t ridiculous.
It’s a little harder to pretend this doesn’t look like a cult activity, though.
They take a break after a while.
Toji nudges a water bottle toward you when you pause to rub your wrist. You look up and thank him with a polite smile.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you until you take it from his hand.
His way of saying don’t fall apart on us.
The true, not absurd rehearsal starts soon after, the first three songs coming together nicely in Satoru's voice.
You already knew they would sound pretty when Satoru performed them, but he really made an effort to make it sound perfect.
No other word to describe.
It’s perfection.
You feel your chest tightening as he sings, the corner of your lip pulling a little, a wave of emotions threaten to overflow but you’re quick to swallow that knot in your throat.
Turning your old lyrics into full developed songs may be a little too much for a very overwhelmed, overworked and underslept you.
But you’re happy.
They all seem to have liked it.
You handled the assignments perfectly that week and there’s still one day left until things change for good.
For the better or for the worse.
When you all take a break to have dinner, — in pizza we trust — you find the guts to approach Toji, to sit by his side on the big couch, and start a conversation.
Have you ever started any conversations in your life?
Not with Toji, that you’re absolutely sure of.
“So… no drummer, huh…?”
You’d rather be slapped across the face than indulge in small talk, yet, here you are, submitting Toji to this torture of sorts.
He turns his head slowly to look at you, half eaten pepperoni pizza slice on his hand. He munches, stares, raises a brow and says nothing.
You need to work on your social skills. Desperately.
“Sorry.” You sigh. “Do you know someone that can play the drums? Maybe a friend?”
Better to be direct. Toji’s slight smirk says he agrees with this.
“I know a guy. Works with me back at the construction site. Has a band and all.”
Your attention is immediately caught, your face lights up.
Hope.
“Really? Do you have his number— or anything, really, I can find him and contact him by myself at some point next week.” You pull your cellphone from your pant’s front pocket, flip it open and get ready to type whatever information Toji feels in his heart he can give you.
“I don’t have his number.” He deadpans.
Your hope flickers and dims, but doesn't die yet.
“Maybe… maybe his name? Anything , really, even his work place— no, wait, that would be weird. Would it be weird to show up there?” You’re rambling now, that’s not really a good sign.
Toji takes another bite of his pizza slice.
“Mm, he used to play with Black Halberd. I don’t think they’re together anymore, though.”
Now your already dimmed hope is not only gone, it’s dead. Shattered on the floor.
“Sukuna?” you whisper.
“Yeah.”
Satoru caught that part of the conversation — at least enough to understand who you’re talking about.
“That dude? He’s not trustworthy!” He states, frowning at the idea of someone from Black Halberd joining the band. “What if he ditches us like he did with his friends?”
“Maybe he had a reason to walk off?”
And just like that all the eyes are on you.
Your eyes would also be on you if that were remotely possible.
You have no idea where that came from.
“I mean, we just have the side of the story the other members told…” You start speaking, your eyes fall to your hands that are pressed on your lap, the discomfort of too much attention already making you shrink. “Maybe… he should have a chance to tell his side.”
But he had so many chances.
He didn’t take any of them, letting the reporters and gossip websites write and broadcast as much shit as they wanted about him.
Satoru shrugged it off after considering what you said for a while, then resumed his chat with Suguru about some new guitar model that just came out and he was dying to have his hands all over it.
Toji was already eating another slice of pizza, quietly enjoying his dinner.
And you, well, you were there with that awkward feeling creeping in, like you don’t belong there anymore.
Maybe talking about Sukuna was a mistake, you know how Satoru despises Black Halbert.
Pathetic.
Maybe Satoru is mad at you and will no longer trust you to write for him — with him.
Useless.
Maybe you fucked it up already, even before the new band could take its first breath.
Damaged.
Maybe you’re no good without Maki by your side…
Ugly little thing.
Toji took you off the downward spiral with a sharp poke on your ribs, earning a squirm and a confused look from you. He pointed towards Satoru with his chin.
“He talked to you and you didn’t respond. You good there?”
Satoru and Suguru were both looking at you with eyebrows raised and a slight hint of worrying in their expressions.
Shit.
“Yeah, sorry, I think I zoned out for a bit there, this week has been… something.”
You try to brush off their worries with a heavy sigh and a gentle smile.
“Then you’re spending the night.” Suguru nods at his own words, deciding your fate for you.
“Maki will be fine, I texted her saying you would sleep in again a while ago.” Satoru states and gets up from the couch, cracking his back and taking a deep breath. “I think we should make it a thing, don’t you think? Pizza night and sleepovers every friday.”
“Hard pass.” Toji scoffs, but makes no mention of getting up to leave yet.
“So kind of you to decide I’ll be spending the night without consulting me first.” Your tone is heavy with sarcasm as you cock your head and raise a brow at him.
“You don’t need to worry that little head of yours with anything tonight, sugar. Satoru Gojo will be making all the decisions.” He smirks and winks at you, making you roll your eyes.
But you’re grateful.
So, so very grateful.
You’re probably gonna be able to have your first good night of sleep in a week.
Shouldn't you feel bad for using your friends like that? Like they are the alternative replacement for the pills.
“You’re missing out on the fun.” Suguru got up from where he was seated and walked around the big couch just to lean in and rest both his arms crossed on the couches’ backrest, right behind Toji, who was still sprawled comfortably.
“I’m too old for sleepovers.” He remarked and tilted back his head, resting the back of it over Suguru's arms and staring at him from upside down. “I’d rather spend my Friday night doing something else.” His tone was plain, but Suguru grinned like a demon with the implication in his words.
And you are sitting right next to them, speechless, unblinking.
You can see first hand how close their faces are, even upside down, there’s some kind of thick sexual tension building up and you’re frowning, really invested in whatever that situation was.
You’re afraid to blink and lose something crucial, you're holding your breath and don’t even realize.
“You know the rules in my house. If I’m not invited, there’s no fucking nor making out.”
Satoru’s words ripped your attention from them to shoot him a flabbergasted look, making you finally realize you need to breathe, but upon sucking up air, you choke in your own spit and cough aggressively.
“Don’t worry, Toru, you know Toji has no interest in gorgeous, fabulous people.” Suguru finally straightens his back, putting distance between his face and Toji’s before giving you a few pats on the back to help with your situation.
“That’s not true. The only one of you who would have a chance with me is her.” Toji remarks, dipping his chin at you.
And once again you yank your head in his direction after you’re done coughing.
Eyes red and watery, face all red from trying not to die, and a giant question mark hangs in the air.
"Me?" you manage to breathe.
What the fuck is happening here?
“Cuz I’m straight.” He concludes after a while.
Ah. That makes sense.
“No fun.” Suguru murmurs and pivots to go find himself something to drink in the kitchen.
“God forbid you let her think you’d make out with her because you find her sexy and desirable, huh?” Satoru butts in the conversation again, hand resting on his hip, gazing down at the two of you with a squint.
You feel like the only thing you’re doing for the past minutes is staring at one, and then at the other, each time more baffled by their words.
Is there a competition taking place at his house this friday night? Are they competing to see which one will make you actually lose your cool first? If so, they’re all winning very soon.
“Never said I don’t.” He shrugs and lets out a yawn, finally getting up from the couch. “Anyway, drop the jealousy. I’m heading out. You kids have fun.”
So he gives your head a brief pat and leaves.
What are you, five?
Maybe he believes he’s really much older than the rest of you.
And what did he mean by 'never said I don't?'
You know what?
The week was too long, you are too worn out, you’re not about to read too much into it.
Let it go and enjoy the night with the boys.
You let yourself relax a little, forcing Satoru to agree not discussing any more band related things until after Maki leaves tomorrow, so you spend the rest of the night watching some horror movies with them.
All of you perched up in Satoru’s bed with a bowl of popcorn Suguru insisted on making.
There’s no movie without popcorn, he threatened, so now the three of you have to make sure no one gets scared enough to drop it on the bedroom floor or over the bed.
Goma is there, unphased, laying over the cozy blankets across the bed.
Suguru spends most of the time with his eyes closed or with his head hidden under the covers, he can’t handle the scary parts.
And neither can you, but you’re putting on your brave face and pretending you’re not absolutely terrified by the horrible creatures showing up on the screen — or the horrifying scenes of gore.
You need to remember to thank Suguru for playing a cartoon right after the movie ended.
Satoru wanted to sleep right away, so you two gave him good night but kept the TV on, which made him huff and groan, but tag along and watch it with you, laying his head on your shoulder and even making a few comments about the episodes being actually nice for a kids’ show.
You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up it's near ten in the morning and you're really cozy, cuddled in Satoru’s arms.
Suguru would be spooning you if it wasn’t for Goma snuggling up between the two of you, his arms around her and his face shoved in her black fur.
Was that okay? Did you hug him mid sleep and he didn’t notice?
You try to slowly peel yourself off him, but his arms are wrapped really tight around you. He grumbles when you try again and slightly opens his eyes, tilting down his head to look at your flushed face through half opened eyes.
You say nothing but your heart is pounding hard when you look up at him, eyes wide and filled with doubt.
Satoru presses his lips against the top of your head and inhales deeply before falling back asleep, bringing you even closer to him. He smells like gardenias, and he's so warm, so comfortable you can't help but softly nuzzle his chest and close your eyes.
Relieved, you breathe deeply and allow yourself to sleep again.
*****
Saturday
The day passes so fast you barely register it. Feels like it all went in a blur.
The apartment is absolute chaos.
Bags backpacks stacked by the door, the faint smell of Maki’s shampoo lingering in the bathroom.
She hugs you hard enough to bruise.
“Call me. No matter the hour.”
You nod, swallowing glass.
You know you won’t.
At the airport, you wave until your arm aches. Then she’s gone.
That night, Yuji drags his suitcase and backpack into the apartment, grinning like he’s about to announce free pizza.
“Don’t worry, roomie, I’ll keep the place clean. And no weird smells. Promise.”
You let out a shaky laugh and help him to accommodate.
Maki insisted you take her bedroom, it was bigger and had her posters and some things she left you in the closet. So, before Yuji arrived, you were able to move your things from one room to the other and clean up the apartment a bit.
“I’ll hold you to that. And the cooking promise, too.”
He gives you a bright smile and thanks you once again for letting him move in.
You notice he starts to motion for a hug, you feel your pulse rising slightly, but he stops himself immediately, giving you a slight bow with his head before going to make himself comfortable in his new bedroom.
Maki told him. Or maybe he noticed by himself.
He's a very good kid.
The silence later that night was already different.
Not empty. Just… lingering.
Chapter 6: Is it Really You?
Notes:
It's time to talk to Sukuna and see if he wants to take Maki's spot in your band, but your week is being... hellish, to say the least. Flashbacks of your childhood are back and so is the sleep paralysis.
TW: implied sa/csa, verbal abuse, physical abuse, past child neglect, ptsd, pill addiction
Chapter Text
Is it Really You?
It’s already afternoon, you didn’t have a terrible night of sleep paralysis or night terrors this time, but you can’t say you slept very well either.
Restless sleep is still bad. The pills don't quite make miracles, you know.
Too many dreams, too many tossing and turning around, and you feel like you’ve slept less than four hours total. So much for planning on having a quiet, uneventful Sunday.
You spent the first part of the day touching up the designs to show Satoru later. The bad mood didn’t interfere much with this task, you actually liked all the projects you doodled, all the small details you added and the overall look of the fantasies.
Going with the full anonymity of the band’s members would be a challenge, but you promised you’d make it work. You just need to think about the materials now, and how to make it in a way they wouldn’t pass out and still be able to breathe, see, sing… and everything else on a live show.
You press the bottom of your palms into your closed eyes and sigh. You better do something else for a while and stop thinking about it before you start crying, you can figure it out later.
There's still time.
The apartment now feels different with Yuji in it. Not worse, not better — just different.
Where Maki moved around with elegant precision and unspoken rhythms you’d long memorized, Yuji bumbles.
He drags his suitcase over the threshold, half-apologizing when it bumps into the doorframe. He kicks his shoes off in the wrong spot, then corrects himself with a sheepish grin.
You don’t actually mind, but you’re glad he’s trying his best to keep it all clean and organized. It would be terrible to share a house with someone that has no regard for the place they’re sharing with you.
He takes up space in the living room like he belongs there already, folding into the couch with a sigh so heavy it rattles the cushions.
You hover at your bedroom’s doorway, arms crossed and a slight crease forming between your eyebrows. It’s not mistrust — you learned to trust Yuji. It’s… dissonance, you think.
The silence that used to be Maki’s, now filled with his chatter and laughter.
Later, you find him in the kitchen unpacking groceries he picked up on the way to the apartment from the game he told you he would watch. Eggs, rice, miso packets, even some vegetables.
It’s more than you or Maki ever bought.
You and her were used to eating out a lot, or to grab some food to go and share in the apartment. It would be nice to have homemade meals every once in a while.
“You really cook?” you ask, skeptical.
He grins. “I try. You’ll be my test subject.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Great. Can’t wait to die of food poisoning.”
He laughs so loudly it startles you, the kind of laugh that ricochets off walls and makes them feel less empty.
Night drags on and you don't do much more than enjoy the apartment and talk with Yuji about his plans and how he’s doing at college.
You lie awake in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, tired but the neverending anxiety is there with you. The apartment creaks differently. Heavier footsteps, a cough through the thin wall, the faint buzz of Yuji’s phone, his laugh at probably some text or meme.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re not alone.
He’s safe.
You’re safe.
Sleep paralysis grips you just before dawn.
You wake — or you think you're awake — to the weight on your chest increasing, the room too still, too silent.
You're not safe.
A shadow at the corner of your vision, slowly falling to its haunches before it starts to move towards you, not natural, not human. You try to move, to scream, but your body ignores you.
A familiar panic claws at your throat, leaving you slick with sweat as your tears start to roll out from the corners of your eyes.
It's just a nightmare, it's not real, this isn't real.
You close your eyes tight, whispering to yourself, but it doesn’t make it go away. Your breath starts to catch and become ragged.
It lingers, it crawls up your bed, its weight pressing you down further on the mattress.
More tears roll from the corner of your eyes and a few pool in your ears, others vanish into your hair and pillow.
Even now you hope your quiet sobs don't disturb Yuji.
You keep your eyes shut and pray for it to end soon as you dig your nails in your palms.
It’s the only thing you can bring yourself to do.
*****
By morning, Yuji’s already in the kitchen, humming off-key while he burns eggs in a pan.
He greets you with a sunny “Good morning, roomie!” that feels almost obscene against your exhaustion.
You sit at the table, sipping your bitter coffee, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the cup.
You probably look like shit, god knows it’s exactly how you feel.
Then, casually, like he’s offering you sugar, he starts a conversation.
“So… about Sukuna.”
Your head snaps up, your eyes widen and you look at him, blinking.
“What about him?”
Yuji shrugs, flipping the egg with a spatula that sticks.
“You need a drummer. He’s free. He's good. Did you get to talk to him yet?”
You stare at his back in silence, then you sigh.
For some reason when he talks about him the name is not heavy in the air — opposite to the smell of charred breakfast he’s making.
Everyone that’s into the rock and college bands scene knows Sukuna, or so you believe. Black Halberd is an old and big enough band to be known around the city. Everyone heard or read somewhere about the walk-off. It was even on TikTok.
Contrary to a few, you don’t frown or wince when people mention him or his bad reputation, but right now with Yuji leaning casually against the counter, a plate of what he intends to feed you on his hand and his eyes on your face, you feel a little pressured.
You’ve felt Sukuna’s presence in class, it’s not amicable.
The scar across the right side of his face and all the stories people tell of how he got it, are like a big warning sign to keep your distance.
“You’re serious,” you mutter.
“Dead serious.” Yuji stabs at the egg, gives up, and slides the mess onto your plate.
“Look— he’s rough. But he’ll show up. It may not look like but he’s really responsible. And he won’t let anyone push him around. He’s what you need right now.”
How could he know what you need?
You don’t answer right away.
You sip a little bit more of your coffee, Yuji sits across you at the table with his own plate of toast and eggs. You two are now ready to share the first of many meals this boy plans on preparing — give you both survive this trial.
“Plus, if you need, I know where he lives. We can go there and kick his ass or something if he does something stupid with you or the guys.”
The thought of Yuji trying to fight Sukuna made you chuckle and maybe consider that this boy was a little bit delusional.
You really like his confidence.
“You’re laughing now but I’ve become stronger in the past few years, I can take him in a fight.” He points his half eaten toast at you.
You mutter a totally not convinced ‘sure, sure’ before giving a try to the egg and the toast. It tastes a little burnt, but the seasoning is very good.
Somehow he managed to get a soft yolk with a burned base? Pure technique.
“By the way, why do you know where he lives?” You ask mid-chewing, realizing just now that he said that like it was a very normal information to hold.
“He still lives at our old family house, it’s not far from the campus, and I still have the key.”
Oh.
Our old family house.
Our?
You stop chewing and just stare at Yuji for a moment.
There are some resemblances…
“He’s your brother!?” You exclaim, and much to his delight you look really surprised by that conclusion.
“You didn’t know? We basically have the same hair, I mean…” He sneers at your shock. “But yeah, he’s my older half-brother. It’s good you realized it now before I have to explain why he’s sitting on the couch on some random weekend when you get home. Not that I think he’s coming to visit.”
The idea of Sukuna in your apartment, in your band, makes you a little tense.
Ominous, unsettling, unpredictable — he's like the silence before thunder.
You never know where or when it's gonna hit. But it will.
You also see the logic behind the inevitable decision you need to make.
That’s probably the reason you didn’t get too much out of your way to find someone else. It’s like he’s meant to be the drummer. Like a fresh start not only for the band, but also for him.
Where people won’t know who anyone is behind the masks.
His name now carries weight, bad reputation. Maybe too much of it for any band to recruit him.
And you still think his side should be heard.
You drink the rest of your coffee, reasoning with yourself before you get ready to go to college.
A week.
That’s the deadline you gave yourself to find someone else.
If you don’t, it’s gonna be him.
*****
The music theory classroom empties slowly, chairs scraping across the floor, chatter filling the room.
You say bye to Utahime and tuck your stray notes and music sheets inside your notebook, already rehearsing the to-do list for the night — Satoru’s drafts, half your assignment on Stravinsky, your shift later. And of course, convincing Yuji’s big bro to play in your band.
He could have asked him on your behalf, couldn't he?
When you step into the hall, Sukuna is already there. Again.
Didn’t he attend the class this morning? Or maybe he just left very quickly and… stuck around waiting for someone. Maybe Yuji.
You gave up on trying to understand anything that had to do with him, you don’t have the brains for that today, instead, you gather up every single ounce of courage you have and walk up to him with the best, most polite smile you can pull.
Somehow you feel like you’re walking towards your execution. This knot in your stomach needs to go, nothing is going to happen!
He’s just a guy.
You can try to think of him as a beefier, scarier, straighter, taller Yuji.
Keep telling yourself that in loop, maybe it helps.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest like last time, expression carved from stone. His scar catches the light harshly, dragging your gaze before you can stop yourself.
You feel like you could die right now, explode in a million pieces. What the fuck is this anxiety boiling up inside you?
What is your problem?
Your pulse betrays you, quickening in ways you refuse to aknowledge.
His eyes flick up, catching you. They linger too long on the notebook you hold tight in your arms, pressed against your chest.
“Took you long enough,” he says when you stop in front of him.
Was he waiting for you?
The hall is half full, students crossing, walking, talking and deciding if they’re willing to attend the next class or just skip it.
You pause, fingers tightening on your notebook, eyebrows knitting together. “You know me?”
“Yuji told me about you.”
Yuji told him you needed a drummer? Did he know it, saw you every other monday and decided to say nothing? Does this mean he has no interest in joining the band?
That train of thoughts makes your stomach tighten. You tilt your head, humming sarcastically, like that’s the only way to talk to him without showing how nervous you are.
When one mask fails there's always another ready to be used.
“Should I be flattered or worried?”
“Said you’re breaking your back holding your little project together.” He coos at you, there’s no kindness in his tone. It’s almost mocking, as if he’s testing whether you’ll bend with just a few words. “Also, you look like shit.” He cocks his head, raising his slit brow.
Ugly little thing.
You laugh in disbelief.
What an absolute piece of shit.
You’re aware you have dark circles under your eyes and your skin is probably paler than usual. You haven't slept well since last Friday.
Does it mean he needs to be an asshole about it?
“That’s uncalled for.” You raise your chin and feel something ugly unravel inside you. “But yeah, I’ve been managing some things on my own. It’s called responsibility. You should try it sometime.” Your tone is flat.
The corner of his lips twinges for a second. You grin.
For a heartbeat, his stare sharpens and you feel like it’s cutting right through your veneer.
You don’t look away, though you want to.
That’s what annoys you most — your own nerves, the strange current under your skin when his attention pins you down.
When hurt, you often try to step back, retreat, shrink.
But the only thing you felt at his comment was the need to bite back.
He pushes off the wall, stepping closer and towering over you, the air feels heavier.
Too close.
Your heart is trying to break through your ribcage.
You don't step back and keep your eyes locked in his dark crimson eyes. He stares at you very closely.
“You want a drummer.” he drawls. It isn’t a question.
“I want a drummer that won’t bail on me.” You hiss the answer between your teeth, furrowing once again your brows.
Why is talking to him so nerve wrecking?
He tilts his head, studying you the way a predator studies prey — not quite hungry, but curious about how long it will take for it to realize its situation. He clicks his tongue, annoyed.
“And you think you can find better than me anytime soon?” he scoffs. There it is again, the vicious mockery.
You swallow the lump in your throat, but you force back a polite smile.
“Oh, that’s a lot of arrogance for someone like you. You think you can commit? Or you’re walking as soon as someone disagrees with you?”
That low blow lands with your venomous words.
You don't even know if that's what really happened.
And what the fuck do you mean by 'someone like you'?
His jaw ticks, but instead of snapping, he laughs, a low, gravely sound that sends a chill crawling down your spine and makes you lose your posture for a second. “You’ve got teeth. Let's see if you do more than just bark, brat.” he drawls once again, savoring his words.
You want to ask why he has been watching you.
Why, out of all people, he keeps finding your eyes across the room.
But you don’t. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing you also have been watching him.
Instead, you brush past him, muttering, “We’ll see if you’re worth the trouble.”
He lets you go, but you feel his gaze burn between your shoulder blades until you turn the corner.
You walk faster than necessary, notebook still pressed too tight against your chest. The second corner comes quicker than you expect, and only then do you let your breath slip out, shaky, like you’ve been holding it hostage since Sukuna first opened his mouth.
And you feel like you will throw up and pass out at the same time.
You have no idea of what possessed you to face him like you did, and you’re now wondering if you blew the chances of making him join you.
Pathetic.
You should have been passive, submissive and polite. Maybe beg a bit for him to join your band so you could tell Satoru you finally have everything under control.
You don’t get this nervous around people.
You never let them see you sweat, never let them see you cry. And yet — there is him.
It’s infuriating.
The tattoos, the scar, the tone, the way he just looks at you like he could peel your thoughts back with a glance.
You hate that your body reacts at all.
What are you? A fucking teenager?
Sure, he’s really hot. But he's also Yuji’s older brother. Half-brother. And he’s terrible — and everyone around him seems to agree.
If Maki was still around you could ramble about this to her until she shoved some sense inside your head.
But you won't distract her with your terrible decision making and complete lack of self preservation. She's across the ocean dealing with her new journey and challenges.
She doesn't have time for you.
Heat is crawling up your neck and then there's the tiny flutter in your chest you’d rather blame on Yuji’s breakfast or too much caffeine.
Yuji said it was a good idea.
Gojo said it was dangerous and unreliable.
And still — he’s the best drummer you could possibly get on a week deadline.
You look like shit.
“Well, fuck you too.” You mumble to yourself and bite the inside of your cheek when your thoughts circle back at him.
He knew about you. Or at least, he knew enough to talk confidently about your band.
And your appearance.
Yuji must’ve opened his mouth and spilled things you never intended for Sukuna of all people to hear.
But how much did Yuji know?
Maybe Maki told him more than you thought.
Or maybe she just vented to Yuji about band things and he commented with his brother...?
It doesn’t sound much like her, nor like something Yuji would do, but it’s a possibility.
You’re breaking your back holding everything together.
You want to laugh at the phrasing.
You’ve been breaking your back since you were a child, since your own house turned into a battlefield.
This struggle is nothing compared to that.
And yet you’re doing it again and again — patching holes, keeping the frame from collapsing, making sure no one else sees the cracks in the foundation.
You care so much about the band, about your friends, about this family of sorts Maki pulled together for you.
You can't let them down, no matter what.
You duck into the campus courtyard, slipping past clusters of students lingering in the late spring sun. The air smells like roasted chestnuts from a vendor cart by the gates.
Warm, human, grounding.
Unfortunately, your thoughts circle back to him anyway.
You think you can find better than me anytime soon?
You hate that the answer is no.
No, you fucking can’t.
You hate even more that his arrogance feels so earned.
The rumors, the walk-off, the viral video — they all say the same thing.
Sukuna Ryomen is impossible. But he’s also undeniable.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. A text from Satoru.
Toru:
Don’t forget the lyric drafts by tonight.
Big things coming! You got this, my little star!🌟
You sigh, half a laugh, half exhaustion.
Of course.
Another chore, another plate to spin.
But Satoru’s words are warm, you really don’t want to let him down, of all people.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, Sukuna’s voice lingers still. Gravelly, mocking, mean, impossible to shake.
You tell yourself it’s just an annoyance.
It has to be.
*****
You’re so small when it begins.
Too small to understand why your mother doesn’t come when you cry at night. Why her footsteps retreat down the hall instead of drawing closer.
Too small to know why her new boyfriend’s eyes linger too long on your body, why the air shifts when he enters the room. Why you’re afraid of him since the first time she introduced you two.
You tell your mother you don’t like him. She keeps dating him anyway. Later you understand she's obsessed with him.
At first, it’s words.
Pathetic. Useless. Ugly little thing.
The words repeat so often you start to believe them, like a song played until it etches grooves into your bones.
His voice becomes the one you hear when you hesitate, when you fail, when you’re too loud or too quiet, when the anxiety creeps in.
Stop crying. No one is coming for you.
You flinch at the slam of doors.
At the crack of his belt against the counter.
At the weight of silence that means he’s angry and waiting.
Waiting for you.
You’re older now, but not too old, you’re barely ten.
Then, hands are added to the words.
Worthless bitch. You're a nuisance.
The first time he grabs you, your mother’s in the kitchen too.
She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t see the way his grip bruises your wrist. Doesn’t hear your breath stumble in your throat as you swallow a cry.
Or maybe she does, but chooses not to.
The nights are the worst part of it all.
Touches are added to the words and hands.
Your mother needs pills to sleep since your father passed away. She is always out cold after a while, but sometimes he doesn't even wait for her to be asleep.
The air is thick, unbreathable, when you wake up unable to move out of sheer fear.
Your body is frozen while the shape of a man hangs in the dark corner of your room. A silhouette that feels too real to be just your imagination. His shadow slinks into your bed like it belongs there, pinning you down while you tell yourself it’s just your mind, this is just a nightmare — but your body remembers, you know it’s not a nightmare.
This is real.
Your body knows even though you try to forget it all in the morning.
You're good for nothing. All you have to offer is your body.
You learn to be quiet. To make yourself small. To fold into corners so you won’t be noticed. To avoid him at every cost. But he finds you sooner or later, often at night, often in your bedroom.
Take it quietly. Don't tell your mother. She won't believe you anyway.
You learn sarcasm later, much later, as armor.
But back then, you have nothing.
Just silence. Just survival.
You start to snatch a few of your mother’s pills to sleep. It makes it a little more bearable when he has his hands on you. When his body is pressing yours down against the mattress.
And you're the one left feeling dirty.
You even think of ending it all before you’re even thirteen, but you can’t do this to your mother. You remember how she was when she lost her husband.
You don’t want to hurt her even though she doesn’t seem to care if her boyfriend hurts you.
Back then, Maki is the first to see you. Really see you.
You meet her when you’re still raw and brittle, a kid with walls instead of skin.
She doesn’t push. She just sits with you. Brings snacks, drags you outside, fights for you when you can’t fight for yourself. She talks to you even though you don’t talk back to her.
Slowly, painfully, you begin to believe that maybe not every hand raised toward you is meant to hurt. Not every word is meant to pierce your skin.
But the scars don’t fade.
They surface when a man raises his voice too loud near you, when someone moves too quick, too close.
They surface in the way your stomach knots if you catch your reflection and hear his words — pathetic, useless, ugly little thing — like he’s still lodged inside your skull.
Now, years later, you carry it with you.
Into every rehearsal, every class, every late night staring at a ceiling where shadows twist into the memory of him.
You laugh, you joke, you keep busy, because if you stop moving, stop pretending, the silence comes back.
And in the silence, you hear him.
You never told the band. Never will.
Only Maki knows. And when she left, you wondered if you were going to break.
Or if you’ll find a way to keep standing alone, the way you always have.
But she was there then, she was always by your side keeping you safe from the episodes without even realizing.
You don't want to burden anyone else with this whole mess that you are, so you clench your mask and press it tight to your face.
At least you have the pills to help you when things get hard.
The bell above the record store door rattles and makes a loud bang against the wall echoes when someone shoves it open too hard. The sound is sharp, sudden, and it hits your chest like a fist. You freeze for half a second behind the counter, fingers still clutching the edge of a vinyl sleeve, your eyes widen and you feel your breath coming to a halt.
It’s nothing.
Just some guy walking in with too much energy, already lost in his own conversation. But the way the metal clangs against the frame rattles straight down your spine.
Your breath shortens for a moment. Your stomach turns heavy. You drop the sleeve back into the crate before your hands can shake.
And suddenly you’re eight again.
The slam of a door, the thud of boots against the hallway floor. Your stepfather’s shadow stretching long across the linoleum. His voice, low and sharp — pathetic, useless, ugly little thing.
You swallow and shake your head softly, but the words don’t leave. They’ve lived inside you for years, calcified in the marrow of your bones.
It’s been a while since something took you back this far.
Since a loud noise triggered any memory and made it all resurface.
The terrible sleep and the stress are catching up to you.
The man’s laugh, the one who came into the store, echoes in your ears too loud, too close. And you’re pinned. Back in that night when you woke up and couldn’t move, body stiff with terror while his shape loomed right above you.
Your pulse spikes. Your nails dig into your palm as if that will anchor you here, in the store, in the present.
“Hey.”
It’s Mr. Takahashi, standing there, looking at you with a kind of concern you didn’t know he had. It pulls you back like a hook to the chest.
You blink, and the shadow dissolves. Just customers now, flipping through shelves, the bell above the door swaying a bit quieter.
You nod once and force your mouth into a small curve.
“Yeah. Just zoned out, sorry!”
You’re good at that line.
You’ve used it a hundred times.
But your heart still beats like you're running.
Your skin hums with the memory. And you know tonight, when you’re alone in bed, the shadows will come back.
They always do.
Chapter 7: Throne
Summary:
Sukuna's POV of the week, and guess who stops to visit his young brother? The man himself, making himself at home for your despair.
Chapter Text
Throne
Sukuna POV
Sukuna wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, streaking gray across skin already smudged with grime. His palms are raw from the jackhammer since he doesn’t wear gloves.
Gloves dull the bite, and he likes the sting. It keeps him sharp at work, and this is a kind of work you need to be attentive at all times if you want to go home in one piece. He has seen men losing fingers, feet and even teeth — all because they were preoccupied with something else, their minds unaware of their surroundings.
Idiots.
Toji is also there, hunched over a stack of rebar, sweat soaking through his tank top.
The man doesn’t talk much. When he does, it’s curt, practical — measurements, orders, the occasional gruff joke about the younger guys slowing them down.
Out of everyone here, Toji is the only one worth tolerating.
Sukuna isn't friendly and everything about him screams unapproachable.
Six foot five, built thick through the shoulders and chest, his frame is the kind that comes from years of lifting steel and being active — not because he wanted, because he needed to. And definitely not from carefully curated gym regimens.
His body is functional, all dense muscle and sharp lines, with veins that ridge his forearms and crawl up his neck when his temper rises or when he pushes the drums too hard. There is nothing clean or polished about him — he looks like someone carved out of stone and left rough on purpose. His hands, large and calloused, carry the history of work and fights, most of them won.
The burn scar that runs down the right side of his face — temple to jaw — isn’t grotesque, but it’s raw enough to command attention from everyone who crosses his path. People look once, and then again, unable to decide whether to glance away out of fear or stare longer out of compulsion.
He's used to it at this point but he never lets a chance of scare people away go unenjoyed.
Not only the scar brings people's attention to himself, his tattoos are also very eye catching.
Ink covers his body like armor. Not delicate designs or colorful flourishes, but stark blackwork, bold enough to look like it’s etched into him with violence.
Bands bite around his biceps, thick blocks and geometric lines coming down his chest in a hook-like design. The heavy piece across his back spreads up his nape in tapering points, visible when his shirt collar slips. There’s no narrative in them — no dragons, no portraits — only shapes that suggest permanence, weight, and menace. Calamity.
In low light, they give him the silhouette of something ritualistic, as if he wears shadows painted into his skin. On stage, sweat slicking his chest, the tattoos gleam under the lights, turning him into something more than a man — a presence, an altar, an executioner.
He relishes in this vision.
He never slouches, but he doesn’t stand rigid either; his posture is loose in a way that makes people feel nervous, weight carried forward, balanced like he could strike or walk away without hesitation. His gaze is narrow, unblinking, heavy with the kind of attention that makes you feel stripped bare when it falls on you.
He has a habit of tapping rhythms on whatever’s in reach — thighs, counters, his own jaw — as though his body needs constant outlets for its energy. When he does speak, it’s short, dry, clipped, every word sharpened until it cuts.
And when he doesn’t speak, the silence is worse, because people start imagining what he’s thinking, and nobody ever imagines anything good. They're not far from the truth, though.
Yet, you look at him with something he doesn't recognize. There's no fear, no dread, no rejection, instead there's some morbid curiosity that keeps bringing you back even after he shows you no kindness.
It irritates him.
A foreman yells across the scaffolding, voice cracking against the clatter of steel. Sukuna doesn’t look up, he just keeps driving the jackhammer deeper until the ground trembles, the vibration crawling into his bones.
When he finally cuts it, he takes a minute and lights a cigarette right there in the dust, taking a long, slow drag that feels so damn needed.
Someone tells him smoking’s not allowed on-site.
He blows the smoke in their direction and takes another slow drag, knowing too damn well no one is coming to make him put it out.
Break comes, and Toji drops beside him on a slab of concrete holding two bottles of water. They clink onto the ground — one slides toward Sukuna’s boot.
Toji doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him, just unscrews his own cap and drinks, watching the other men working, a few pretending to work.
Sukuna holds his cig between his lips and picks his bottle up eventually, drinking it all in a few seconds. He focused so much on getting the job done that he didn’t realize he was so thirsty.
His phone buzzes and he almost ignores it, but the name flashing across the cracked screen makes his lip curl.
Mahito.
Prick:
Heard you’re playing construction worker now. Cute ♡ Wanna come drink tonight?
Sukuna stares at the message, smoke curling from between his teeth before he smashes the cigarette butt against the concrete.
He leaves it on read. No time to spend with this kind of nuisance right now.
Another ping. Needy bitch.
Prick:
Kenjaku’s got us new gigs. Jogo says we’ll bury you. Don’t sulk forever, King ☆
He shuts the screen off. Tosses the phone down onto the slab so it rattles, Toji glances at it but remains unphased, it’s not his phone, it’s not his problem if it breaks even more.
Let them yap. Black Halberd can rot.
He walked out and they know they’ll never find another drummer that hits like him.
It eats at them, that helplessness, and that’s why they keep reaching.
Sukuna stretches his neck until it pops, scars tugging faintly across the right side of his face. The burn aches in the sun, though he never lets anyone notice any sign of discomfort.
Sunscreen something he doesn’t believe in. Never had time for this self care bullshit.
He remembers Yuji staring at it when they were kids, too young to understand what fire does to flesh.
Too young to know it could’ve been worse, so, so much worse.
He lights another cigarette, flicks ash at the dirt, mutters under his breath.
“Trash.”
Toji glances at him just for a moment, smirks and then goes back to whatever the fuck he got to do before finishing the day.
That’s another reason Sukuna doesn’t mind him — he doesn’t pry.
The rest of the shift passes in sweat and monotony. Steel clanging, men cursing, heat pressing down. At least it’s Friday, so he can enjoy the next two days off.
Sukuna bizarrely thrives in this kind of job.
With this part time job he realized he doesn’t need the noise of a stage to feel alive — chaos follows him wherever he steps, and building things, blowing shit up and carrying heavy materials keep his mind occupied.
It’s also a place where he can let his strength and anger overflow when needed.
By evening, when it’s time to clock out, Sukuna nods toward the convenience store across the street. “Beer?”
Toji finally smirks.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
As they walk, his phone buzzes again.
A different name this time. Yuji.
He unlocks it. The message is short.
Pest:
Hey, oniisan . Remember my friend I told you about? She might reach out. Don’t be a dick.
Sukuna huffs a laugh, shoving the phone into his pocket.
Like that’s possible.
Still, the idea gets a hold on him.
He’s heard whispers about Gods Beneath collapsing, and Yuji told him about Maki leaving the band when he showed up to visit their old family house where Sukuna still lives to this day. He liked to show up uninvited to have dinner with him, called it brother bonding time. At least Sukuna made him pay for food delivery, refusing to eat his shitty burnt food.
He’s caught sight of the girl — of you, his brother’s friend — in classes, always scribbling, always tired, barely being able to handle all of your projects and yet accepting new ones. You didn’t seem to know how to refuse something.
Sometimes he catches you staring back at him.
Sometimes he also overhears you talking back to a professor before backpedaling and apologizing. It’s a little entertaining to watch you try to hide your true self behind so many masks and bury your personality beneath layers and layers of what looks like people pleasing.
He knows that type very well.
Carries the world but refuses to show the weight.
His brother also does this kind of shit, it’s nerve-wracking.
He imagines what your voice would sound like breaking under pressure.
Not in weakness — no, he’s not interested in weak people.
He’s interested in challenges and defiance.
He’s interested in potential.
That sharp little tongue of yours, biting back when you should fold.
The thought amuses him enough to make him grin as he and Toji cross the street, boots crunching gravel before the little ding of the convenience store announces new customers arriving.
“I’ll have just one. Gotta rehearse tonight. Will go to the Devil’s Throat after, you’re free to join.”
Toji picks two cans of cold beer from the refrigerator, tosses one towards Sukuna and pays for both without asking.
Maybe he should join him later. He could use some fun after those wicked fucking weeks of dread and disgust.
*****
The bar stinks of beer left too long in warm glasses, cheap cologne, cigarette smoke that clings to the ceiling like fog, and maybe stale piss.
Sukuna shoulders his way in behind Toji, ignoring the people who glance and then look away just as quickly.
He’s hard to miss — even if they weren't huge, there’s always the ink crawling up his neck and face, the scar, and the aura of someone who’ll break a jaw for fun.
They claim a booth at the far back, away from the stage where some half-decent cover band is grinding through a tired Metallica set. Sukuna sprawls into the corner seat, one arm stretched across the backrest, tattoos disappearing under the rolled sleeves of his black shirt. Toji orders an ice bucket filled with beer bottles without asking.
Finally, a night with great potential.
When the bottles land, Toji lifts his with a nod. Sukuna smirks and clinks his own lazily against it. Foam spills down the bottle’s neck when they tip it back.
The first swallow is bitter, ice cold.
Perfect.
Toji sets his bottle down. “You working tomorrow?”
“Yeah, probably.” He should rest and enjoy his days off, he wanted to, but he could use the extra money.
He flicks his lighter, lights a cigarette right there in the booth as the waitress heading towards them hesitates, but decides not to bother him.
“Foreman’s bitching about deadlines. Thinks we’ll magic steel outta thin air.”
Toji grunts, amused.
“You’re still better at that site than most of the kids fresh outta school. And a few old men, too.”
“Low bar,” Sukuna says around smoke. “And here I thought we were bonding.”
The cover band finishes one song, stumbles into another.
Sukuna leans back, tilts his head to rest over the backrest and blows the smoke up, bored already. His scar is twinging a bit still from the excess sun.
At least it’s not bothering too much now.
“Pathetic. Half these assholes can’t even tune their instruments right and still they’re hired to play.”
Toji raises an eyebrow.
“Coming from the guy who bailed mid-set.”
Sukuna’s grin sharpens, teeth bared, he straightens his posture again.
“Difference is— I meant it.”
Toji scoffs and Sukuna’s phone buzzes against the table. A text lights the cracked screen.
Mahito.
Again.
Prick:
Out tonight. Come through. You know you miss it 👅
Sukuna thumbs the screen dark, jaw tightening for half a second before his smirk returns.
“Persistent little fucker.”
“Kenjaku’s still mad you walked,” Toji drawls. He doesn’t ask, just states it like it’s fact. “Mahito too. They’ll keep needling.”
Toji showed up every now and then on Black Halberd shows. He actually enjoyed the band and their sound.
Besides not talking much, they became somewhat colleagues.
Toji was the one who reached out to Sukuna after a few days and recommended him for his boss on the worksite, he owes his current job to him.
But calling them friends seems a bit too much.
“They can needle all they want.” Sukuna exhales smoke slow once again, deliberate. “They’ll never replace me. They know it.”
The waitress swings back to drop another round. She’s flustered when Sukuna’s gaze pins her — too steady — but he doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch until she hurries off.
“You scare people for fun, huh?” Toji chuckles.
Sukuna shrugs, humming.
“Keeps the air clear.”
The band finishes another song, and some drunk college kids cheer like they just saw god descend. Sukuna snorts into his beer.
His phone buzzes once more.
Yuji this time.
Pest:
Moving into her place tomorrow. Told her you might be around. Be nice, oniisan.
Sukuna smirks.
“Be nice,” he mocks under his breath, amused by the joke only he hears.
Toji catches the tone, glances at him sideways.
“What’re you getting yourself into now?”
“Nothing.” Sukuna drains his bottle, smoke curling out of his nose before he puts the cigarette away on the ashtray. “Yet. But you might start seeing me around a bit more.”
He stays restless, even as the night blurs into cigarettes and more bottles.
Because beneath the chaos, beneath the irritation, there’s the itch of something new creeping toward him.
He doesn’t know if it’s trouble or opportunity.
Doesn’t matter.
Either way, he’ll take it.
*****
The second time you come up to him, Sukuna can’t help the little curl that ghosts at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile — more like the twitch of a man who finds something mildly entertaining in a world otherwise dull.
He’s standing outside the campus practice hall, chain-smoking where the faculty can’t complain, when you approach.
Small steps, steady enough, but your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you’re bracing yourself for a blow.
He makes you anxious.
He picks up easily on things like that.
You don’t flinch around him, though. That’s what makes you just a little different, more bearable.
Most people see the ink on his skin, the scar burning across his cheek and eye, the deadness in his eyes, and they either retreat or bristle.
But you keep your chin lifted, voice calm, professional even. So polite. And you don't avert your gaze even when he makes it uncomfortable on purpose. You don’t step back when he closes the space between you, even though he knows you want to. He feels your instincts kicking and you fighting them. Fighting him.
You explain again what the band needs as if he doesn’t already know. You briefly mention a deadline, and he knew it very well, it was a matter of fact that he enjoyed toying with your nerves by asking you if you already found another drummer that was better than him just to see your jaw tightening and you brushing him off.
You talk like someone who’s trying not to show you’re asking for a favor.
He should make you beg, that would be fun to watch.
Would your pride be put above the needs of your little band?
Sukuna doesn’t answer you right away, he takes another slow drag, letting the silence stretch as you wait patiently.
He likes watching people twitch in it, but it doesn’t seem to affect you that much. Pity.
You’re just staring, waiting, foot tapping on the grass anxiously.
He flicks the cigarette, exhales.
“I'll let you know, brat.” He deadpans after all that expectation.
Not agreement nor refusal. Just a weight dropped between you both — he wants to keep you anchored. Maybe if he pushes the right buttons you would finally show him a little bit of what's beneath all that politeness. He'll keep stretching until you're so tense you snap, like a rubber band.
When you nod, he notices the faintest quiver in your throat. Not fear exactly.
Pure tension.
The kind that comes from shouldering too much without letting anyone else see.
Yuji’s mentioned you a few times, always telling him to be nice, to be decent, to treat you well because you have too much to deal with already — a poor, little thing.
How you’ve been drowning in the logistics, in the hole Maki’s departure leaves behind.
How you keep the band stitched together with quiet hands no one else notices.
It’s that image that lodges in him.
Yuji made you sound like a fucking martyr, a victim of the world. So many responsibilities, so many bad things happening with this poor girl.
Boo fucking hoo.
You could cry him a river, he wouldn't bat an eye.
He doesn’t do pity.
But you seem different from the version his little brother painted. You don’t want pity, you don’t even seem to want sympathy, you just look like you want to solve the problems you have in your hands and go through with the rest of your day — you look like you want to be left alone.
You seem like a type of person who drags themselves through shit because no one else will.
He knows that pattern.
He’s lived it.
He tells you again he might think about it when you talk to him on the next day.
Doesn’t give you the satisfaction of a yes or no yet.
Then he walks off once again, leaving you to carry that silence too.
*****
It’s already Thursday and he ends up at Yuji’s new apartment. Your apartment.
The kid begged him to come help haul boxes, though Sukuna does most of the lifting while Yuji chatters about campus nonsense.
The place is small, even by campus standards. He doesn’t need to know the floor plan to tell — two bedrooms at best, thin walls, doors that don’t close properly. The new place smells like cardboards and burnt fried eggs. Reminds him of the day Yuji moved out of the family’s house and wanted to cook something for him. Fucked up a pretty good frying pan. But under that there’s a sharper note: ink, fabric dye, maybe the faint acid tang of cigarettes smoked out on the balcony.
He notices because it clings to the curtains.
The genkan’s cluttered — Yuji's shoes piled, not lined, yours are organized. It tells him what kind of place this is: lived in, but not disciplined. Looks like Yuji really did make himself at home in no time. He's way too familiar with his brother's mess.
The kitchen is worse. He doesn’t bother opening the fridge, but he notes the sticky notes, the scrap-paper reminders. Desperate organization that still looks like chaos.
The living space is a mess, though not the kind that comes from laziness.
Sketchpads spilling off the low table, papers pinned with pens and half-crumpled fabric swatches. He drags his eyes across the posters on the wall — some peeling at the corners, some drawn by hand — and can’t decide if it’s resourcefulness or childishness.
You’re there when he walks in, hair a little messy, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, face bare in a way he hasn’t seen before.
You look up from the floor where you’re kneeling over a half-assembled shelf, and for just a second, you don't put on the mask. No sarcasm, no carefully arranged composure, politeness or charm. Just wide, startled eyes and a flicker of vulnerability before you straighten, tuck it all back in.
Sukuna grins and lingers on the doorway, leaning against the frame after downing the heavy box for Yuji to sort his things out, he remains watching. Silent. He doesn’t have to do anything, really, he can feel you already fidgeting under his gaze.
His presence fills the room heavily, and you feel it — he can tell by the way your hand stills on the screwdriver, by the way your breath hitches before you exhale slowly and by the way your body wants to release tension by bouncing a leg or tapping a foot, but you suppress it.
Yuji’s oblivious, still rambling about how you agreed to help him decorate and how he has been cooking for you both everyday.
Sukuna doesn’t interrupt. He just listens to the endless talk and watches you pull your walls back up, piece by piece, until you’re the same calm girl who approached him on campus.
It’s something intriguing to watch, it may have taken you years to learn how to slip into a state of mind calm enough to cage the chaos.
You even give him a smile when you catch him staring once again, but he knows your true wish was to probably carve his skin with the screwdriver for the anxiety he's making you go through just for his own entertainment.
That’s when he decides he’s joining your project.
Not because the band needs him. Not because of Yuji. But because he wants to see how long it takes to crack your veneer completely. How hard he can push you until you break and unleash your anger or whatever it is that you're so adamant to hide.
He wants to see what's buried deep inside.
Because something about the way you refuse to flinch and retreat around him makes his blood stir.
He doesn’t tell anyone that is the reason, of course.
When asked, he’ll say it’s for the gigs, for the money, for the exposure, for the chance to pound his drums and remind the city he’s still here.
But underneath, it’s the quiet fire in your eyes when you shoot him a glare that makes him want to stay.
*****
Your POV
The apartment still feels a bit wrong without her.
Yuji fills the silence with his laugh really often, his playlists, his endless energy, and you love him for it — but the absence still presses in when you close your eyes.
And then Sukuna starts showing up.
The first time it’s a Thursday evening when you’re trying to assemble a shelf for Yuji. He’s moving a few of his other boxes from the previous place to his bedroom and you agreed you’d help him decorate. After that you two could eat and watch something together. You didn’t expect his jerk of an older brother to tag along and show up while you fought for your life tightening a screw.
You don’t like new people in your space. That’s rule number one.
Sukuna isn’t just “people,” and maybe that’s worse.
He fills the apartment like he fills every room, too tall for the ceiling, too broad for the hallway, too silent for the amount of attention he drags with him. You tell yourself you’re fine, calm, polite, professional, all those nice words that mean don’t show your throat.
His eyes sweep through the genkan, the kitchen, the living space, like he’s cataloguing weak spots. Shoes piled by the door, sketches and fabric spilling over the table. You know exactly what he sees.
A fucking mess.
At least he was helping Yuji move his things, so you take a deep breath and recompose yourself. You even offer him a smile, as polite as you can be when caught off guard. And he ignores it, of course.
The next time you deal with him is on the following day, Friday night. You’re crouched on the living room floor, laptop balanced precariously on a stack of textbooks while you edit one of Satoru’s endless design requests. Yuji’s fussing with the kitchen, trying to figure out how the stove actually works, and then Sukuna is just… there.
You didn’t see him coming in nor you know when he arrived, but he’s leaning against the kitchen counter.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer a hello, but you can feel his eyes eating their way into you, so you fix your gaze on the lit screen in front of you once again after a quick check.
Why would he engage in something as trivial as common courtesy or politeness?
The all mighty Sukuna, above it all, no one is worth his good fucking night.
He stands there and watches his brother trying to impress him for a while.
You still feel his eyes long before you look up, a prickling awareness that makes your neck stiffen. The same hoodie from the previous night insists on sliding off one shoulder no matter how much you pull it up, your hair is… less messy, and you’re uncomfortably aware of how domestic you must look.
You force yourself not to fidget. You force yourself to keep scrolling through fonts, finding better material to work so you can forget about that unnerving feeling creeping up your spine.
When you finally glance up, his gaze doesn’t waver. It doesn’t ask permission either. It just pins you there like you’re something to dissect.
You’re torn between asking what’s his problem and just going back into your bedroom and leaving them be. But Yuji would probably be upset, and the last thing you need right now is this.
Yuji’s voice fills the silence, always oblivious, always excited. Sukuna doesn’t join in, doesn’t comment, doesn’t move, he lets the moment stretch until it feels unbearable, then pushes off the counter and passes by — close enough that you catch the heat of his body, the scent of smoke and sweat.
He locks the bathroom door behind him and Yuji lets you know that dinner will be served soon.
You hate that your heart stutters.
You hate that your hands tremble when you pick your laptop back up.
*****
Saturday comes and Satoru is on another one of his tirades. You’re at his place again, Suguru curled lazily into the couch, Toji perched on the armchair with a beer in hand. Satoru is pacing like a man with lightning under his skin, ideas spilling out faster than you can type.
“We drop vocals first — just vocals, no instruments — make people curious. Tease them. Maybe acapella? Or maybe with a piano…”
You arch a brow, pen paused mid-note. “You… already told us that, Satoru. Actually, you told me about it and asked a million things so we could make it work.” You frown, a little confused. He stops mid pace to look at you like it’s the first time he’s hearing about that. “Actually the deadline is almost over but I found a drummer.”
“You sure?” He tilts his head a little and shrugs it off. “And of course you did, I never doubted you for a second. I could kiss you right now!”
Suguru mutters under his breath, “She’s brilliant because she’s the only one who puts up with your chaos and bullshit, Toru. We've stopped paying attention a while ago.”
Satoru ignores him. He drops onto the rug in front of you, very close, knees brushing yours. His hand brushes your ankle as he gestures wildly, you just keep up with the notes — because this is just how Satoru is, right?
He’s safe in that way, or at least you’ve convinced yourself of it.
But the look he gives you lingers a beat too long. Makes you think of Sukuna and the way he usually looks at you when you catch him staring randomly.
Like he’s searching for something.
And you wonder, for the first time, if maybe Satoru’s closeness isn’t just about comfort anymore.
Maybe there is something else you’re failing to realize.
He’s been very demanding of your attention lately, very clingy in a way you don’t fully understand. He picks you up more often to join him and he lights up visibly when you approve his chaotic ideas.
The roles seem inverted — it used to be the other way around, at least in your head.
You were the one always looking for his approval, but it looks like he’s keeping you as close as he can. Even Suguru complained that he was spending less time with him, his best friend, to spend time with you.
He says it’s because you’re the order to his chaos, but he couldn’t be more wrong.
He has that annoying, charming and calm façade.
But so do you.
You both wear masks to hide your true selves, and that’s probably why you can understand him and translate his emotions into lyrics so easily.
You’re both really chaotic and messy.
But you’re also broken beyond repair.
You wear your mask so tight, so often, that you think it’s starting to melt into your skin and become one with it.
You may be losing your true self.
But that’s okay, the real you would be a burden in the life of the people you love, so you need to keep this mask up at all times — for the greater good.
You need to be useful.
So people won’t leave you behind when they finish with you.
You try not to think too much about all the things your friends don’t know and never will about you.
This time you don’t spend the night over, Suguru stays but you had promised Yuji you would keep helping him out with his bedroom as soon as the sun is up on Sunday.
Toji gives you a ride. Satoru thinks it’s not a great idea since he just had a beer, but he scoffs and does it anyway.
And then he tells you on the way to your apartment about all the times he drove after drinking more than enough to send you into a coma.
This man is insane and you fear for you life, but just a little.
*****
Back at the apartment, you catch Sukuna again.
Is this fucker living here?
Yuji’s passed out on his bed, half-buried under blankets. Sukuna is sprawled on the three spots couch, changing the channels on the TV, but none seem to catch his attention for long enough.
He raises his eyes lazily to catch yours when the front door closes behind you.
You cross the living room, the exhaustion written in the slump of your shoulders makes him chuckle. You walk fast so you don’t risk hearing again how you look like shit or something else as lovely coming from him.
You want to take a bath. You want to slip in your pajamas and sleep. But you’re not about to leave this man in your living room and pass out cold like your roommate did.
Unlike Sukuna, you’re courteous.
So you let your backpack slide off your shoulder on the corner of your bedroom and go back to sit on the couch with him, distant, almost pressed against the armrest - since he’s sprawled against the other one.
“Did you eat?” You question, glancing at him with tired eyes.
“If I say I didn’t, will you cook for me?” He coaxes, stopping the channel navigation for a moment.
You squint at him.
“No, but I can order something.” You’re already regretting this whole interaction.
“A pity.” He seems to have lost interest for a moment, his gaze traveling back to the screen. But then “I bet you’d look good wearing an apron.”
What a motherfucking cretin.
“Bite me.” You snap. You’re too tired to keep up the good manners around a brute like him.
“I might.” His towering figure shifts as he leans in closer to you. He smiles, his teeth bared. Do people normally have such sharp teeth? “But I’ll draw blood.” he drawls lowly.
You feel something inside your chest stirring. Blood rushes to your face like crazy and you’re frozen in place, wide eyes staring at his approaching figure like a deer staring into headlights of an approaching car.
A disaster waiting to happen.
You can hear your heartbeat drumming in your ears and nothing else.
What — in the name of the good god — is happening?
He’s closing in.
Crimson eyes never leaving yours like he’s drinking from your despair.
Instinctively, you raise your arm and flatten your palm against the center of his face, like you’re trying to stop an animal from approaching your face.
It works, though, it makes him stop in confusion.
His eyebrows knit together in what you presume it’s dismay, but it’s gone in the next second — when he drags his tongue against your palm, from the bottom of it to the tip of your middle finger, and then falls back to sprawl on the couch where he originally was, grinning.
What the fuck has just happened?
“Careful what you ask for next time, brat.” He comments like it’s nothing and goes back to the channel skipping.
“You’re a freak, you know that?” You hold up that palm he drooled on and clean it on your shirt. Your heart might as well start screaming from inside you, you can hear it as loud as his voice in that room.
“And yet you nearly begged me to play with you.” He coos at you, places his elbow on the opposite armrest and rests his face against his fist.
“Go home, I wanna sleep.” The politeness is far gone, you’re now grouchy and finding it in you not to kick him out physically. Not that you can do it, but you could threaten to.
“Then sleep. Am I keeping you up?” He rasps. “Yuji told me to crash on the couch to help him tomorrow morning with his roomie.” You know he finds pleasure in annoying you, you just don’t know the reason behind it. “Not very polite of you to kick out your roommate’s guest.”
“Great.” You press your lips together in a flat line and push yourself off the couch, you might as well take your bath and go to bed. “Yuji’s guest can—” You cut yourself off and huff, pivoting to leave the room.
And you can see his smug expression as you do because he knows he got under your skin.
You don’t want to deal with another unhinged action coming from Sukuna, so you focus on your quick, warm shower and slipping into your comfortable pajamas.
He’s still there, in the same position, browsing for something that might not even exist on the TV.
You sigh deeply and grab a spare blanket in your closet. There’s no extra pillow, though. You stay still in the middle of your bedroom, trying to win over your own mind telling you that it’s important to be a good host and it doesn’t matter if your guest is a jerk.
You curse under your breath, grab one of your pillows and walk towards him.
He doesn’t move nor acknowledges you, so you drop the blanket on the spot beside him on the couch and throw the pillow near his lap. Throwing it at his face may have felt better.
He raises a brow and finally looks up at you.
“Don’t drool on my pillow.”
You don’t wait for him to respond, you’re tired — exhausted.
You just want to fall on your bed and sleep.
Chapter 8: Calcutta
Summary:
It's rehearsal time with Sukuna and his new friends: your band.
The big release is finally happening for your happiness and anxiety! Plus Haibara is a sunshine that will help you out without asking for anything..
Chapter Text
Calcutta
So far, how things have been?
Well, let’s think about it for a second.
Your best friend is in Europe, you’re in Japan. You barely talk to her between chores, projects and Satoru needing your help with everything that has to do with the band.
Also, your band, Gods Beneath, the one Maki put together with you, Satoru, Suguru and Toji?
Dead. Puff!
No more.
Gone at the same time she left.
You have been getting less and less sleep, the episodes came back and you found some comfort in the same old pills you thought you’d never have to take again. They don’t make you rest, though, they just make you pass out cold and your body wakes up less tired, but your mind is still exhausted by the time you’re up.
But that’s no one’s fault.
And there’s Sukuna.
Arrogant older brother of your new roommate that takes some kind of pleasure in nagging you and making you want to punch him in the face in every interaction. And you have absolutely no idea of why he likes to mess with you.
Did you do something to him that you don't know about?
He's older than you — you're pretty sure — so you couldn't have done something in your childhood that somehow he resents to this day. You barely existed through your entire childhood.
But he’s the new drummer of your new band.
And he’s insufferable.
And here you thought the hard part would be getting him to agree to joining the band.
Satoru rented a studio for your first official rehearsal as a new unnamed band. You couldn’t disagree when he told you he didn’t want Sukuna in his house yet, after all he doesn’t trust the guy.
The walls of this studio are padded in torn gray foam and it kinda smells like mold and dust when you open the creaking heavy door. You’re eighty percent sure Satoru has the means to rent a better place, a clean, decent place, but you think he rented this garbage on purpose just to see what would be Sukuna’s reaction. Or to send a message you’re not entirely sure about.
Fluorescent lights also buzz faintly overhead and remind you of an assignment you’re yet to finish.
Not even there you’re free from the thoughts of college shit you have to get done with.
Sukuna is already there when you arrive, seated behind the kit. He twirls one drumstick between tattooed fingers, bored, as if you took too much time to arrive and he had nothing better to do.
But Toji is also there, leaning against one of the dusty looking walls, bass hanging on his shoulder and his expression as bland as always. If you didn’t already know, you’d never guess these two worked at the same place. They don’t even seem to acknowledge each other.
Satoru claps his hands, loud. “Alright, gentlemen — and lady. Let’s try not to implode today, hm?”
Suguru has arrived with you two. He places himself near Toji and tunes his guitar lazily as Toji adjusts his bass strap, getting ready.
You set up your notes by the soundboard, pretending not to notice Sukuna’s gaze flicking your way — sharp, brief — and the hint of a grin in his lips.
You refuse to look at him.
You have been avoiding him like the plague since he crashed at your apartment as Yuji's guest.
The pillow you lent him and told him not to drool on? You guess he didn't drool on, but his smell is impregnated in it. His cologne — and that faint smell of tobacco and copper mixed together with something herbal... You tried making sense of the smell by taking a deep breath with the pillow shoved in your face, and even though you did it on the solitude of your own bedroom, you became self conscious too quick, too hard, and since then you've tried to not be awkward.
Which made you act really, really oddly and immediately leave every time you crossed his path.
Every single time but at the rehearsals.
Satoru starts with his usual manic pep that you’re already used to, so you just nod and go along normally.
“We’re aiming for cohesion, for texture, for—”
“Just start.” Sukuna spits.
The room stills. Suguru smirks faintly, as if amused or trying to hold back a laugh. Toji just exhales through his nose, like he saw that coming. Satoru’s smile stretches wider, brittle at the edges.
“Big man doesn’t like speeches, huh?” He taunts, but his knee bounces. “Fine. We play.”
You blink at the scene and hold your phone tight in your hand. You’re not so certain you want to record this rehearsal anymore.
The first run is utter chaos.
Sukuna doesn’t follow anyone — he drags them into his rhythm, heavy, violent, unpredictable, and of course Satoru tries to soar over it with vocals, but the timing slips.
Suguru, adaptable, bends his chords into the pocket Sukuna demands. Toji, gritting his teeth, adjusts his groove until it locks. By the end the song was raw and jagged but alive in a way it never sounded before. But there’s still so much room to improve.
Satoru wipes sweat from his forehead, laughing breathlessly. “See, this is what I mean! It’s unhinged, it’s—”
“It’s sloppy,” Sukuna interrupts again.
Did he find someone else to pick on?
He’s leaning back, sticks balanced across his knees. His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on you a moment longer than the rest.
“But you’ll get there if you keep up.”
You roll your eyes at his disdain, but you honestly hope this works. You can't afford Satoru asking you to fix his attitude.
Toji just nods once, like he agrees with the blunt assessment, but Satoru and Suguru seem to have their doubts. They look at you as if trying to settle that score, but you shrug — you know that you can work with whatever they throw at you. It’s what you have been doing for a while now.
You scribble a few notes, trying not to betray the thrum under your ribs — because in the end Sukuna’s right.
He bends the sound, and if you survive the bend, the music comes out terrific. Dangerous. Just how Satoru told you he wanted.
A song worth listening to.
And as Satoru launches into another manic rant about stagecraft, you catch Sukuna watching you again.
Goddamnit.
You raise your chin and point it at Satoru, signaling that he should be paying attention to him, not staring at what you’re doing in the corner like a creep.
He tilts his head and lifts an eyebrow, then you're looking back at your notebook like it's the most interesting thing in the world.
And they go again.
The song kicks off shaky as Satoru throws himself into the vocals like he’s trying to prove a point.
Suguru follows smoothly, Toji’s bass rumbles steady, and you keep your focus on the notebook in your lap, pretending you’re working. But you can’t ignore the drums.
It’s not just drumming. It’s punishment. Every hit is violent, precise, like he’s driving the sticks through the kit instead of on it. The air actually moves with the force of it. You’ve heard Black Halberd recordings, but hearing him this close is different — he doesn’t just keep tempo, he fucking owns it.
The sound fills your chest, rattles your ribs, demands you listen. Demands your attention. Your devotion.
You catch yourself staring again. At the tattoos tightening and shifting across his arms. At the scar pulling faintly when his jaw clenches. At the way he doesn’t break eye contact with Satoru even once, like the song is a contest neither of them agreed to out loud.
When the last note crashes out, there’s a silence so sharp it could cut. Sweat beads along his temple, tattoos slick under the low lights. He tosses the sticks onto the snare with a clatter, leans back, spreads his legs wide like the kit is his throne.
“Well?” his voice is gravel, eyes flicking your way for half a second before dragging back to Satoru.
Half a second is enough to make you become self aware.
Satoru smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not bad... for a dropout.”
Sukuna’s mouth twists in a sharp grin. “Better than watching you try to keep time.”
The tension crackles. You scribble something useless in your notebook just to have your hands moving and your attention elsewhere. Because for all your sarcasm, all your calm, one thing is clear.
He’s the best damn choice you’ve got.
He's undeniable.
*****
The studio feels colder today. Not the air, but the way everyone carries themselves — like the tension has already walked in and sat down before the instruments were even plugged in. That’s one of the things you feared would happen when Satoru and Sukuna were together in the same space.
Giant egos clashing in a very specific way.
Satoru arrives, loud as ever, sunglasses indoors, spinning on his heel as if the room exists to orbit him. He smiles at you and gives you a tight hug. Tight enough to almost make you forget how stressful things have been. You let out a soft groan when your spine cracks at the pressure and he lets you go, mumbling about you needing to stretch and exercise more.
As if you had time.
Suguru is already set up, coaxing low static hums from his guitar strings. Toji leans against the wall with his bass, never fearing that the crawling mold could touch him, and stripping the label from a half-empty bottle of water without looking at anyone.
Sukuna arrives after you four, no greetings, as you expected. He sits at the drum kit, not upright but coiled, sticks tapping patterns against his thigh already. He doesn’t look impatient, he looks like someone waiting for the wrong note, the first misstep, something to pounce on. Annoying.
“Alright! Yesterday was fun—” It’s the second day straight you are rehearsing. Friday and saturday, but Satoru doesn’t seem tired at all.
“Sloppy,” Sukuna cuts in. Now he’s just being mean. You give him the stink-eye.
Satoru’s bright smile falters only for a blink before he spins a chair around and straddles it backwards. “Sloppy is jazz, darling. We’re aiming for raw. Real.”
You open your notebook at the soundboard, but the pen stalls between your fingers.
Already, they’re circling each other, two storms vying for the same space.
And oh god you’re so tired of the bickering.
Will it be like this until one of them gives up?
“We’re not raw yet,” Sukuna drawls. “You’re out of rhythm. Always trying to sit on top of the beat instead of locking with it. Get your shit together and keep up.”
“And you think you’re the anchor? Bitch, please. You’re a drummer, not god.”
Sukuna finally looks up, grin sharp but his eyes dead still. “I’m the pulse here. Without me, you’re just noise.”
“Then prove it to me, big boy. We’ll run Blasphemy again.” Finally he stands, sunglasses sliding down his nose, defiance bleeding off him.
Suguru adjusts without complaint and Toji mutters something like, “Here we go,” under his breath.
The count-in is rough, and then Sukuna detonates.
His drumming once isn’t just rhythm, it’s violence in time, a raw force that drags everyone into orbit. Toji’s bass snarls low, thickening the ground and Suguru bends together, following his lead with all he can.
Satoru seems to fight to stay on top, voice straining, soaring, until he finally drops the polish and just screams. It isn’t pretty as you’re accustomed, it definitely isn’t clean. But it feels a little more real.
By the time the song collapses into the final silence, the walls still seem to hum.
Or is it just your head?
Your hand shakes around the pen, though your notebook page is nearly empty.
That’s good, but that’s not what this new band is aiming for.
Your teeth find the inside of your cheeks as the sting of anxiety pokes at your chest.
How do you get to show them what you thought without sounding a little too out of pocket?
Satoru wipes sweat off his face, a faint laughter bubbling out of him. “See? That’s it! That’s the bite we needed!”
“Not bad,” Sukuna finally says. Then, after a beat: “Needs to be better, though.”
He’s right again and you hate it.
It was messy in ways it can’t be, it was brutal, but it breathed in a different way.
Suddenly something crosses your mind.
“What if—” Again, all the eyes fall on you and you’re instantly second guessing yourself. “What if we lean towards more complex and broken rhythmic patterns, like…” You stop to think a bit and find what you’re looking for inside your memories. “Progressive metal? Maybe nu metal, too.”
Suguru tilts his head, considering what you said. Toji seems to be having a hard time imagining what the fuck you meant, and Satoru is rubbing his jaw and humming as he walks towards you to peek into your notebook.
You spread your hand over the notebook page and squint at him. “We can use some synthesizers sometimes, don’t you think that can work?” He leans in closer to touch your forehead with his own, looking into your eyes over his lowered sunglasses’ rims as he likes to do so often, you have noticed.
There's a deep silence and all you can see is the pair of bright, sky blue eyes with those big black pupils that feel like two voids sucking you in.
“You,” He drawls and you feel a knot in your throat. “—are creativity incarnated. Genius, sugar.” He has his big smile printed on his lips as he praises you from too close.
He takes a few seconds before pivoting and going back to his spot and you’re left there with a red face and a fuzzy, warm feeling in your chest.
You can’t even pay attention to Sukuna's gaze piercing through you before the rehearsal resumes.
*****
It’s Thursday night when Satoru drags you, Suguru, and poor Utahime into a cramped Shinjuku live house under the pretense of “research.” She was studying with you in the campus coffee shop after your shift when his manic ass basically abducted you both to keep him company and help him and Suguru do a little digging.
The space reeks of cigarette smoke despite the no-smoking signs. Posters layer the walls in chaotic layers — old punk flyers half torn, too yellowed, a shiny visual kei ad plastered on top, the glue is still tacky.
The soundcheck thuds through the floorboards as some local band hammers through their warm-up when you lean against the bar counter, sketchbook tucked under your arm and backpack on your back since you didn’t have time to drop anything at home, while Satoru argues with the sound engineer about mic placement like he owns the place.
Does he own the place? You wouldn’t be too surprised to find out he owns a few places, honestly.
Behind the counter is a boy who looks too young to be working here but does it anyway. Haibara Yu, his nametag says, though he greets you with a grin before you even look. His energy radiates like a warm spotlight — wide black eyes, hair falling into his face, sleeves rolled up as he wipes down glasses with more enthusiasm than anyone should have at this hour or at this job.
“You’re Satoru’s band, right?” he asks, practically bouncing. “Gods Beneath? I saw you guys at Velvet Room last month or so! You did that cover of Dir En Grey’s Obscure and—” He claps his hands together. “That was insane!”
Suguru smirks at the praise and is immediately drawn in. Utahime stares at you, realizing just now that her classmate was, in fact, part of a band and never once thought of mentioning it to her.
Satoru takes full credit without blinking, as expected.
But Haibara’s eyes shift to you, curious. “And you’re… the lyricist? Designer? You’re the one that sort things out, right?”
You blink, caught. “How’d you—”
“Not hard to guess,” he grins. “You looked like you were scribbling the whole time you were at the show. Most people just record with their phones. You were writing. That’s cooler.”
There’s no weight behind his words, no ulterior motive — just genuine excitement that feels almost alien after the weeks you’ve had. He leans over the counter, lowering his voice like it’s a secret, which makes you lean in too so you can hear him over the noise.
“If you guys ever need help getting a slot here, I can talk to my manager. We’re always looking for bands to book, especially if you’ve got original stuff coming.”
He didn’t know about the band dying.
Satoru’s ears practically twitch at that. Suguru, ever the diplomat, takes Haibara’s name and number with a faint smile, but you notice that he’s as defeated as you are at the realization you’re not calling him anytime soon.
You watch the way this boy beams at strangers, like the world hasn’t touched him yet.
It’s refreshing.
And maybe a little saddening, too, but only if you think too much into it.
Another Friday night, but this time Satoru don’t call everyone for practice. He said he’s just being nice and giving you all a break from such a harsh, tense week, and rehearsals can come back next weekend.
But you’re at his place right now.
The house is quiet except for the creak of Satoru’s old piano bench.
You set the phone down at an angle where the frame catches nothing but his hands — pale fingers hovering above the ivory keys, trembling with contained energy.
“Ready?” you ask, your voice is hushed even though no one else is here besides you two.
He flashes that grin, wide and electric, though his eyes are steadier than usual, his pupils aren’t as big as the last few times you remember checking. For once, he isn’t bouncing off walls or babbling nonsense. He exhales slowly, leans forward, and lets his fingers sink into the first notes.
Calcutta.
You’d written the lyrics days ago in a sleepless haze, words pulled out of some half-buried vein inside you. He didn’t question them this time, he just sat at the piano and started weaving a melody around them like he’d known it before you gave it a full formed shape.
His hands move with a control he never manages anywhere else in life. Chaotic, manic Satoru disappears when he plays, and it’s like this every single time.
His shoulders square, his jaw unclenches, and for those three minutes, he’s not the loud, messy man that will hijack you from your place and drag you to his place to work nonstop.
He’s just… sound.
His voice rises soft at first, almost reverent, then stronger, flooding the big room with resonance. It’s raw, imperfect, but uninhibited in a way that no polished studio track ever could be.
You sit just out of frame, notebook balanced on your knees, throat tight as if the words are cutting you open a second time. You chew on your pencil to avoid chewing on your fingernails or the inside of your cheeks. You’re almost hypnotised by his sentimental performance.
When it ends, silence blooms heavy for a while.
He exhales a shaky laugh, turning toward you like he needs confirmation. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”
You nod. You can’t quite get words past your throat, so you just nod again with a smile matching his own.
Later, back in your apartment, you clip the video down — just his hands, just the keys, just the voice.
Nothing that could betray who he is or where the clip has been taken.
You name the account with a string of meaningless letters, upload the file in the dead of night. No tags, no titles.
Just a black thumbnail and a single word: Calcutta .
You don’t expect anything, it’s just an experiment you and he decided to make. Not really a big silent drop to break the tabloids, you think maybe a handful of strangers will stumble on it, leave a few comments you can use to improve, then it’ll sink into the ocean of forgotten uploads.
*****
By morning, the notifications flood your phone. Reblogs. Tweets. Mentions. People arguing over the voice, dissecting the piano phrasing.
You yank open your laptop to check it out.
Too clean to be amateur.
Too strange to be mainstream.
Who the hell is this?
Someone calls it cathedral-like-worship-kind-of-song. Someone else says it feels like the ghost of a prayer. A fan account appears within twenty-four hours, splicing the video into edits with the caption: the voice we don’t deserve.
Some people even go as far as to say it’s AI generated, and it drags out a chuckle from your still sleepy self.
It spreads faster than you can track, like fire jumping rooftops in a narrow street and you’re not certain on how you feel about it. You also need to let Satoru know how it’s going. but not before you scroll down a little more to get that high from all the praises the video is receiving.
Such deep, incredible lyrics.
And you sit there in your campus apartment, phone vibrating against the bedside desk, staring at a video of nothing but Satoru’s hands.
Something private.
Something meant for you and your band only.
Now it belongs to everyone.
Chapter 9: Shelter
Summary:
Finally, it's time to decide the name for the ne band project and Meet Satoru's stylist friend that seems to take some interest on you.
Notes:
Not me going back through all my chapters to add details and more feelings on all of them since I felt that they were lacking the moment I read them for the millionth time
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Shelter
You tell Satoru about all the buzz just before noon. You knew he would get all excited and intense, but you didn’t expect him to be knocking at your door less than twenty minutes later, almost tearing it from its hinges.
Yuji thought it was a burglar for a second before Satoru’s loud voice echoed from the entrance hall and you told your apprehensive roommate you knew who it was.
The neighbours will definitely complain about that commotion, but it doesn’t last much longer as you quickly get up from the couch and run to open the front door just to be attacked with a spinning hug that lifts you off the ground and makes you yelp, holding his shoulders for purchase until he puts you down again — his arms still wrapped around your waist and his smile is as big as it could possibly be.
And so are his pupils.
He says nothing, just stares at you with that giant grin, so you are the one to break the seemingly very long silence with a simple question.
“So… what’s next?” You already knew he had something in mind since the moment he started planning this new band.
The original acapella release being his first big project idea, and him somehow knowing that it would do wonders for the internet — which happened in a matter of hours — was enough to get you believing in his new ideas very quickly.
He also hinted he wanted to do some field research in the past week or so, but he didn’t tell you precisely what he was researching exactly or the reason behind it, so you weren’t very useful for that matter.
“A new release, of course. Another original to make them wish for more.” He sounds a little breathless, still grinning, and still not letting go of you. “Next week, same time, same account. I already have the lyrics ready, baby.” You aren’t entirely sure, but you think he got closer to you, you felt the hug tightening just a bit. “We’re gonna be every-fucking-where.”
Those almost-completely-black eyes are too mesmerizing and you don’t find it inside you to step away from him or avert your gaze.
Yuji, who was sitting right there in the living room with his half eaten sandwich in hands all this time, had his torso contorted back just to peek from above the backrest of the couch.
He let out a faint ‘heeey guys’ that suddenly broke the trance you two seemed to be locked in. Satoru snaps his head towards the voice’s source and tilts it, frowning for a second.
“Sukuna has a brother?” His confused gaze falls back on you, but his arms are no longer wrapped around your body.
You were the only one that took longer than a minute to realize they were really that similar, huh?
“Yes! Sorry, this is Yuji, his younger brother.” You gesture towards Yuji, who you forgot to introduce properly — because you forgot he was there the moment Satoru spun you in that tight hug.
For some reason Yuji has his cheeks already flushed when Satoru approaches him from behind the couch, leaning in to look at his face from a closer distance.
“This is Satoru, we played in Gods Beneath together with Maki before it ended, you know the story. He’s an amazing singer, and… a bit eccentric."
“And this eccentric man is also your best friend.” Satoru drawls, turning his head to look at you from over his shoulder, still leaning in towards Yuji.
“You only say that because Maki isn’t around to punch you anymore.” You raise a brow and find your way back to the couch where you were seated before Satoru showed up.
Your plate is resting over the coffee table and has a barely bitten sandwich on it. The TV, now paused, has a show you and Yuji are watching on a streaming service every other saturday.
“Oh?” Satoru crosses his arms and rests them over the backrest of the couch, now completely bent in, shooting a glance from Yuji’s plate to yours on the table. “Did I interrupt a lunch date?” He croons with raised eyebrows, looking at you with what you perceive as a teasing expression, but that slight pull in the corner of his mouth has you wondering if there’s something else.
“Sukuna has more chances with her than I do, to be honest.” Yuji offers with a playful scoff, but instead of the usual nonchalant response, you have a glimpse of another side of Satoru, one you haven’t seen before.
Satoru clenches his jaw. His lips are pressed tightly in a line, but soon a wide smile shows up, making his eyes crinkle. But there’s something off.
When he turns his head to face Yuji again, the boy falls quiet immediately. He doesn’t know why he’s receiving such a cold stare from this man he just met.
“And why do you think that?” he coos.
You don’t like how his tone is drenched in poison. Like some kind of veiled threat.
“Because Yuji likes men, Toru.” You mutter softly before leaning forward to grab your plate, resting it on your lap and finally get done with your lunch. “You also have more chances with him than he has with me, for that matter.”
Yuji looks at you with a startled expression but you can feel Satoru’s body relaxing slowly as a soft sigh leaves his nostrils and a chuckle rolls from his lips. His gaze is on you again, and his grin is the same as always.
You’re starting to think the stress is affecting his perception of things, or at least the intensity of his reactions.
“And he’s my roommate. Remember I had to find a new one before Maki left?” Satoru looks like he’s trying to remember, tapping his index finger against his chin. “Anyway, we’re watching Malevolent Kitchen season two together, it’s our new roomie thing.” You shrug and take a bite of your lunch, meanwhile Satoru is already walking around the couch to take a seat between you and Yuji, arms wide open resting on the backrest of the couch around both of you as he sprawls like he owns the place.
Yuji straightens his back and sits with a perfect posture, barely letting his body touch the couch’s backrest. His eyes are fixed on the screen.
You just adjust yourself, legs crossed over the cushion and plate resting over your thigh as you munch your sandwich. Comfortable and soon feeling the pads of Satoru’s fingers gently tapping against the side of your shoulder in some rhythm.
“How come we don’t have a thing?” he laments and lets his head fall back, staring at the ceiling through his sunglasses.
The show is back on, Yuji pressed play after he finished devouring his sandwich — and you aren’t even halfway done with yours.
“We literally had a band together, I’m at your place every friday night, and we’re on another project already” You also slept between him and Suguru more than once, and for the past months all of your fridays were his to dictate.
What else does he want from you?
“But that’s different. I mean, like…” He tilts his head back up to glance at you, trying his best to explain telepathically — you guess — since he doesn’t say another word, but you don’t understand what he means by that, nor can you decipher the look he’s giving you.
“I don’t see how.” You mutter before you take another bite of the sandwich. When you look at Yuji, you notice he has a very vexed expression as he locks eyes with you, as if he understood exactly what Satoru meant and you are the only one who’s lost. “But if you want to watch a show together we can do it, I mean…”
Satoru groans and lets his head fall back against the backrest. Yuji, on the other hand, is staring at the TV screen and has this contemplative look on his face. He soon snickers and shakes his head softly, making you wonder if he’s really watching the show now or just thinking about how bold you are.
Anyway, your Saturday afternoon has been pleasant so far. Satoru stays at your apartment until evening since he simply made himself at home and no one told him to leave.
You two started watching a new seinen anime Satoru told you about a few weeks ago. Yuji got too tired to keep watching Malevolent Kitchen at some point and told you he would be meeting Megumi at the mall and probably grabbing something to eat while there.
After a while you thought Satoru was awfully quiet, which was very out of character for him.
He dozed off before you could even finish the third episode.
When you looked at him you noticed his eyes closed behind his sunglasses. He was still sprawled comfortably on the couch, so his head was leaning back once again and settled on the backrest.
It’s the first time you see him fully asleep from such a close distance. You find the vision as mesmerising as when he’s awake, spurting words nonstop and pacing around, shoving new ideas and nonsense on your lap as you fight to gather them all.
He looks so serene. So fragile.
His chest rises and falls slowly with his deep, steady breathing. The corner of mouth twitches ever so slightly every now and then like he’s dreaming, and you notice his eyes moving and darting under his closed eyelids.
You hadn’t noticed he was tired to the point of falling asleep as soon as he sat down comfortably, but maybe his anxiety kept him awake all night since he really wanted to know the result of your little experiment.
Unfortunately, you only told him when you woke up.
You only realize how close your face is to his own when his head and torso jolts up and his eyes hastily open, meeting yours instantly with a restless look — probably from realizing he unintentionally fell asleep.
You gasp softly from fright and try to lean back, but his arm — that was still laying over the backrest of the couch — quickly wrapped steadily around your shoulders to keep you from getting away from him.
You say nothing. You barely blink.
Your eyes are wide and your heart is pounding hard again.
Badum, badum, badum.
You were caught doing something you shouldn’t.
Satoru doesn’t scold nor tease you, he keeps staring closely, his heavy lidded eyes are fixed on yours, — his pupils are back at their normal size — and he has this mixture of tiredness and hunger in his look that makes something inside you shift and rumble with uneasiness.
Why isn’t he grinning or making a dumb joke?
Does he think you’re a creep?
You feel your mouth open and you start to make an excuse to why you were acting like a creep when he inclines a little further, resting his forehead against yours and never breaking eye contact.
Badum, badum, badum.
From this close you can easily smell the tobacco and a hint of mint from his breath.
All you can hear is the sound of your blood rushing in your ears as your heart seems to try breaking free from your chest.
You feel like anything you try to say will fuck this up.
And what is this, exactly, you’re trying not to fuck up?
Badum, badum, badum, badum, badum, badum, badum.
He looks like he’s about to say something—
Buzzzzz.
Your cellphone vibrates against the coffee table, startling you and making you let out a brief squeal as you dart your gaze to it.
Satoru chuckles finally, and slowly lets his arm slip from around your shoulders as he backs away, stretching himself and yawning loudly.
You reach for your phone in hope of making your heart calm the fuck down and your face cool a little bit when he cracks his neck loudly before lazily pushing himself off the couch.
“I think I’m in need of some rest. I see you next friday?” he doesn’t seem sure, but you have every single Friday night reserved for him — as you had from the past couple of months.
“Y-yeah! And send me the lyrics you wrote for the new song.” You lift your head to look at him as he’s already circling the couch to walk towards the front door.
“How anxious! You’re hearing it first hand next Friday, sung by yours truly.” He bows down dramatically before spinning in his heels to open the door. “And then, after another enormous success, we can let the rest of the band know about it.” He gestures vaguely and leaves, closing the door behind himself.
And for the rest of the night you’re completely restless, but not in a bad way, just in a very confused, overwhelmed and fuzzy way you don’t comprehend.
*****
You are now sprawled across the comforter, on your stomach, your legs bent in a V, heels tapping together rhythmically as you recount the story to Yuji, who has his back supported against the side of your bed, sitting on your fluffy floor mat while scrolling down on his phone.
It’s been a few days since you last spoke to Maki and told her about your day, the college, everything — anything.
You always exchange text messages but you haven’t actually seen her on a video call for at least a week. During this time you noticed you and Yuji have been talking more, interacting more and actually strengthening your friendship — now you realize how you’ve missed having someone you trust physically near to talk to, to laugh with, to have your little rituals and miscellaneous.
“So” he starts, pausing his scrolling and bending his neck to turn his head and look back at you “You’re saying that Satoru has been clingy, demanding and even his best friend said he’s been hanging out with you more often than he hangs out with him, is that right?”
“I guess?” You mumble, knitting your brows together and reaching for the bowl of chips Yuji has brought to your room so you two could snack while gossiping “He’s always been like this, you know? He’s clingy and handsy and loves to be really close to his friends but I feel like something changed a while ago. Maybe I’m reading too much into it.”
“Oh my god, you really don’t see it?” He sounds incredulous, bending his arm back to blindly reach for a chip, almost tipping out the bowl “This man wants you. Don’t you see the way he looks at you? He got upset that you two didn’t have a thing together!”
You open your mouth to say you don’t believe it, but you close it and purse your lips for a while before nibbling on your lower lip.
You thought that last interaction was… something else, definitely not normal, but… Satoru is so fucking gorgeous, he’s extremely talented, wealthy in ways you know you wouldn’t begin to understand and could he probably have the whole world in his hands if he only wanted to, and you are…
Pathetic. Useless. Ugly little thing.
You’re just a random girl Maki decided to love, bring into her life, introduce to her friends and indulge in your rock band dreams.
You are just someone that is chaotic enough to understand Satoru’s deranged train of thoughts and organize it into lyrics, and that’s probably why he tags along with you.
Maybe he thinks you’re so frail, pathetic and needy that if he offers you an ounce of affection he will have you hooked for as long as you’re useful.
If you stop being useful he won't care about having you around anymore.
Your downward spiraling session is rudely interrupted by a chip being tossed at your face, and to return the favor you clean your greasy and salty hand on Yuji’s hair.
“Hey! You trailed off there for a bit…” he laughs, patting down his hair to try and clean off the crumbles.
“Just thinking about what you said,” you sigh and let your torso flop on the comforter, burying your face on it and stretching your arms forward over it.
You let out a low, tired groan.
“And?” he reaches back with his hand again, this time to pat your head.
Sweet boy.
Actually, scratch that, he’s cleaning his fingers in your hair as a payback but he gets away from you too quickly, crawling across the bedroom floor before you can grab his wrist.
“You gremlin!” you bark but there’s a grin on your lips. “And… nothing, I don’t know what to think. I don’t think he’s into me, why would he? We’ve been friends for a while, he’s been respectful and nice to me.” you pause, another sigh “I just think he likes my friendship and that maybe he’s very excited for this new project and it’s making he send some mixed signals.”
“Most friends don’t get homicidal when someone mentions you having a chance with other people,” And he has a point, but you know Satoru just doesn’t like Sukuna as a person.
And you’re not telling Yuji about his feelings, after all it’s his older brother you’re talking about.
“He’s just protective and he seems to think Sukuna is… too reckless. If you come to a rehearsal some day you’ll see it.”
Yuji squints, and then raises a brow.
“Okay, bet.” he nods and pushes himself off your floor. “Next rehearsal I’m going with you and if you’re wrong, you’re buying me Taco Bell for dinner next week.”
“I’m not wrong, so I’m sure you’re the one getting me some orange chicken on your way home next week.” You shrug and he smirks.
But are you really sure, though?
*****
Next Friday comes, and with it the next song Satoru wants to release.
You’re at his home after your shift, as usual, laying on his couch with Goma on top of you while you wait for him to get changed into something he really wanted to show you.
You think that no matter what he has on, you’re gonna probably get shocked — you can expect anything from this man and yet he will deliver something else entirely.
A couple of minutes go by, you have both hands buried in the akita’s fluffy fur, scratching her lazy head as she snores on top of your chest.
Then a couple more minutes.
It’s been half an hour, where is Satoru?
He usually doesn’t take this long to change his clothes, what is this menace of a man doing upstairs?
As you’re pushing your torso up from the couch with your elbows — waking Goma up in the process and having her get down to the floor — you hear his footsteps coming down the stairs from the second floor, and as he crosses the living room’s door you can see why he took so long.
He is completely painted in black.
All his visible body parts — torso, neck, arms, fingers and who knows what else.
He’s donning a heavy, hooded black robe over his bare — completely black inked — torso. He has a pair of pants of the same material and color, held up by a black leather belt.
On his head there is an opaque white mask with red carvings that resemble scattered sigils. It covers his entire face, with small, black openings for his eyes and mouth, rendering his expression completely neutral and stoic.
He tilts his head sideways as he presumably stares down at you from behind the couch you’re still sitting on. You stare back at him from over the backrest.
Something in that sight makes your body react, growing warmer.
Uh-oh.
“Amazing, right?” He finally says, spreading his arms and giving a little twirl to let you see the complete outfit. “I had a friend put it together based on your design idea. I think she did it justice.”
You blink.
She really did it justice, this is almost literally exactly the same as your wips and drawings, you had never seen any of your sketches coming out of the paper so it takes you a little while to get used to the feeling.
It’s a really good feeling.
He looks glorious in this outfit.
Oh no, he’s hot.
“Didn’t you like it?” Satoru is closer now, a black painted hand reaches down your face and pinches your cheek, breaking the trance “I can have her adjusting anything you want—”
“It’s perfect.” you interrupt him and finally get up from the couch, walking around it to take a better look at the clothes. You get down on your haunches, and even the boots match your design.
This girl is really good at what she does.
“I think you found yourself an actual stylist.”
You dare to look up from where you’re crouched in front of him and the raw sight from that angle makes your heart skip a beat.
You quickly get back on your feet and pretend to be very interested in the kind of fabric she used on the robe.
“You’re always going to be my designer, though. She just does the snip snip and the sewing part. Maybe some crafting here and there.” He gestures as he speaks, and starts walking towards the piano room, having you following him. “You’re irreplaceable, so don’t you ever worry about it.”
He says so casually and yet those words hit you like a full speed truck, halting your steps for a moment, dragging you from absolutely embarrassed to overwhelmed and sentimental in less than two seconds. You hope the mask and hoodie makes it a little hard for him to hear so he doesn’t notice your faint sniffle.
You’re a big fucking crybaby sometimes, aren’t you?
The phone is set now a little farther than the last time.
You fix the light ring and focus the camera so it frames his entire upper body, now the anonymity would remain untouched by the complete outfit, you just hope he can sing without losing his breath, and play without staining the piano keys — but he assured you it’s all good and that he made tests to reach perfection.
Whatever that means.
“Let’s see if you didn’t lose your lyricist talent after all this time relying on me to unravel your thoughts.” You joke around, pressing record on the cellphone screen.
He has his fingers already positioned over the keys and his masked face your direction for a while — directly behind the phone to make sure everything is working as it should.
You can’t see it but you know he’s grinning at you under the mask.
When it rains
You don’t take shelter
You don’t take signs from GodWhen you can’t
Swallow your demons
You become starving
Darling, I’m noticing your flawsThey’re exactly what I want
Even if you won’t believe me
Know it
The rhythm is calm, composed, but his voice is a little raw and heavy in each line. He looks like he’s not only singing, but actually confessing something with the lyrics.
As you become
Part of my waking rituals
I can tellYou gather up
All of my demons
You become starving
Darling, I’m noticing my flawsAnd I’m matching them with yours
Won’t you take me where you’re going
This timeAnd no matter the cost of rain
I will shelter you all the sameAnd now and then
I notice you laughing
Laughing at perfect deathAnd then you change
Suddenly hollow
You become starving
Darling, we must have met before
As he sings and plays in perfect harmony, he turns his head again, just barely, and his voice gets a tiny bit ragged, but you can feel once again his gaze fixed on you.
Though I could not say for sure
If we knew what we were in for
And no matter the cost of rain
I will shelter you all the same
You can’t help but clap in pure excitement when he finishes with the song and slowly rises from the small bench. You almost forget to press the stop recording button before he takes off the mask and lowers the hoodie — and the lower half of his face is also painted black, and so is the area around his eyes.
“Thoughts?” He asks as he catches his breath, singing while wearing a mask is probably not the most comfortable thing in the world.
Sweat beads on his forehead and white strands of hair are stuck on his face, so you raise your hand — and stand on tiptoes — to try and slick his hair back to help him out of that heat.
“I think this is prettier than anything I've heard so far.” smiling at him, you see something in his eyes soften as his smile grows larger. “And you look like you lost a fight with an octopus.” you tip your chin up to point at the ink crawling up his neck and face and giggle “Does the ink come off in the shower?”
“Wanna find out?” he purrs, smirks and leans in closer, but upon your widening eyes and heat flushing on your entire face, ears and neck, he chuckles and straightens his posture before resting his hands on his hips. “Don’t worry, it comes out with a makeup remover thingy.”
“A-ah, yeah, okay.” You stutter as you nervously turn off the ring light and take your phone from the stand. “Do you have enough of it?”
He shrugs.
“A bottle will probably do, right?”
His smile slowly dies when you visibly fight to hold your laugh.
You’re on his bed, laying on your back, leaning up on your elbows just to see him coming off his bathroom half clean, half… grayish-black-stained.
He managed to take the paint off his face, neck, chest, shoulders and half his arms, but the lower part of his torso is still stained.
He has his gray sweatpants and nothing more — there’s usually a white shirt, but he probably doesn’t want to stain it accidentally.
A bottle didn’t do, who would have guessed?
And it's too late to go out and find a cosmetic store open on a Friday night, so he would have to live with it for the night.
“Don’t be sad, you will survive. Tomorrow we buy a few more bottles so you don’t get to look like a panda again.” Your mockery makes him throw the damp towel he’s using to dry his hair at your face, but you deflect it with an arm and throw it back at him.
You miss and it just falls on the floor with a slap. He ignores it and walks towards the bed.
“You spending the night?” He sits on the edge of the bed and flops on the mattress beside you, arms open, one of them inevitably falling across your belly since you laid back down after throwing the towel back at him. “Or you have plans with your roomie?”
“Nothing planned for tomorrow.” You shrug “Jealousy is an ugly color on you. Unlike that black—” Your teasing gets interrupted when he suddenly flips his body and quickly crawls up on the bed, one knee between your legs and both hands resting on the mattress by both sides of your head, his body framing yours and a few droplets of his still lightly wet hair dripping against your stunned face.
“I’m not jealous.” He drawls, voice low and soft. His torso drops just an inch closer to you, narrowing the distance and letting you feel a bit better the heat emanating from his skin “I just like to have your undivided attention sometimes.” And there it is again — the seriousness you’ve rarely seen on those bright blue eyes.
It takes you a few seconds to understand — because your brain and your heart almost stop working at the same time — but Satoru is soon off you and back on the bed, splayed lazily by your side, arm again resting across your stomach.
You feel your entire body trembling like it’s made out of pure anxiety but he doesn’t seem to notice.
You gotta calm down.
Inhale.
Does he do these things to you on purpose?
Exhale.
“I’m spending the night.” You murmur after your heart allows you to speak without stuttering or whining. “Will Suguru come to watch a scary movie together and spend the night too?”
“Nope.” He turns to settle on his side. His elbow presses against the mattress as his fist supports his cheek. “I’ll have that undivided attention I’ve been wanting from you tonight” His impish grin sends a little shiver down your spine and you feel a tingling inside your chest.
It makes you wanna giggle for some reason, but you swallow it down and just shrug.
You agree to watch a movie with him before you both sleep, but no horror this time, so after a while you two settle on some seinen anime — the one he fell asleep while watching last time he was at your place.
This time it’s you who ends up falling asleep, partially snuggled up against his bare chest.
You were resting your head on his shoulder previously, both your backs leaning against the cushioned bed frame and you both snug under the blankets on Satoru’s king sized bed.
While watching the anime unfold on the big screen TV that hangs on the wall across from the bed, you start dozing off.
You remember hearing him chuckle the moment he realized you were sleepy, before helping you get comfortable in his arms.
You fell asleep to the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of his soap and the gentle caress he trailed on your back, going from your nape to the end of your lower back as the episodes rolled.
No nightmares this night, just peace and quiet.
*****
It’s hot as hell outside even though it is still spring — at least until the end of May.
You start to regret accepting going out with Satoru after grabbing him a few bottles of makeup removal from the drugstore and helping him take the black ink off.
You feel like you’re melting.
Usually you wear monochrome clothes, you don’t have many colored shirts, skirts, pants, or general items — mostly black, white, gray, some sand colored stuff, and other mute, sober colors.
And it’s not like you don’t like colorful things, you actually adore them.
You love cute bright things, but you don’t feel comfortable letting people see this side of you. It’s easier to keep it hidden and let people see only what you show.
Let them see the thick skin, let them perceive you as someone hard to approach and therefore hard to hurt.
Having been scrutinized by the man your mother dated for liking childish things since you were a literal fucking child, you began nurturing a deep-rooted fear of showing interest in any cute, colorful, remotely child like things.
You started going for more adult, dull things since you can remember.
It feels like some sort of weakness will be automatically displayed the moment you allow yourself to show a hint of interest for anything remotely seen as cute, and you’re very aware it doesn’t make any sense, but it just comes with your personality — or with trauma.
Unfortunately, today you’re wearing an all black outfit, and you’re sweating buckets.
Your black band t-shirt, black flared skirt, and of course, black leather platform boots start to get gradually soaked with sweat as you walk by Satoru’s side on the busy sidewalk in one of Shibuya’s streets.
Unlike you, he’s wearing a half open button up white shirt — very light and soft material, you know because you touched it with so much envy — and a pair of salmon shorts with white sneakers. And of course he has his sunglasses on, as always.
An absolutely refreshing vision.
You’re supposed to meet his friend in half an hour in a café nearby, he said she wanted to know the person behind the sketches and ideas Satoru has brought her to work with.
It makes you a little anxious to meet new people, especially without Maki, but you need to get your shit together and stop relying on everyone else to be a functional adult.
Until then you wanted to walk around, visit a few stores and see if you got a few more ideas for the outfits and for the general idea you’re going with the new project.
It kills you that you still don’t know the name of the new band to help you out even further with the vibe, but it’s a thing all of the members should take part in creating, or so you believe.
So you just can’t wait for the next rehearsal when you’re bringing that up and talking everyone into agreeing to create a new name as soon as possible.
You also got to post the video last night — at some point between waiting for Satoru to take a bath and falling asleep in his arms.
He even tried talking you into slapping a few filters on the recording to make it even better, but you brushed him off and said it was perfect as it was — raw footage, filled with emotions.
Perfect even in the little flaws.
Today, early in the morning, you received a message from Suguru with the embed link of the new song released — Shelter — in the anonymous account, asking what the fuck you and Satoru were scheming.
So you took the opportunity to invite him to meet with you and Satoru’s friend at the café in Shibuya to break it down to him, hoping he wouldn’t throw a temper tantrum.
But you think he has the right to scold you both, if you’re being honest.
Satoru is his best friend and you know you would be mad, or at least upset, if your best friend kept something like this from you.
This makes you wonder what Maki is up to these days, you haven’t heard much from her even in messages…
Not the time to go there, you have plenty of time to figure your emotions out after the weekend — it’s time to address the absolute hit this second release is.
It seems to have blown up even harder than the first song, the numbers were three times bigger in reblogs, mentions, tweets, subreddits, probably because people were lurking at your random account to see if another song would get uploaded, and when it eventually happened, they were already there.
The discussions were amusing, and the thirst people felt for Satoru’s-half-body-kind-of-reveal was also enormous, his hands were already being lusted over when they were all people could see on Calcutta, but this time there were already edits on social media referring to him as goth cultist and ritual daddy — which made him blush, and you cackle up hard, calling him those nicknames for the rest of the morning.
So this is the sensation of having a little bit of fame and people actively enjoying your work.
You thrive on it.
You could spend your whole day just navigating through the blogs and social media, watching people talk about the new released song, about their own theories, about the meaning they found behind lyrics, but it was a dangerous path to trail.
You could easily become too obsessed with it and it would lead you to places you don’t want to go, mentally.
You walk around and melt some more under the hot sun and muggy weather until it’s finally time to go meet with Satoru’s friend in the café.
But you arrive a few minutes after the agreed time because Satoru had to buy you a little paper fan, fearing you would pass out in the middle of the street.
Maybe it’s time to invest in summer clothes.
Shibuya Hollow.
A minimalist coffee shop near the scramble crossing, they say it’s very good for a late-night cramming, but you’re meeting there mid afternoon and it will have to do.
From the street you only see a thin black sign with white block letters and a glass door that mutes the chaos of the crossing — and of Shibuya in general.
Inside, the first floor is narrow, long, and pared down — white concrete walls, polished dark wood counters, single-origin beans lined up in amber jars.
The baristas move with near-silent efficiency, grinding, pouring, never raising their voices above the low hum of jazz coded lo-fi beats, keeping the overall vibe calm and cozy.
A very fitting soundtrack for the place, you admit to yourself.
A slim staircase leads to the second floor, which opens into a dim mezzanine with scattered low tables and worn leather armchairs facing wide windows. From up there you can watch the blur of Shibuya’s neon while the glass keeps the sound out, making the city look almost unreal.
Maybe you start coming here to sketch or decompress after a busy day. It makes you feel like you’re inside those comfy games you like so much.
You can see a few students spreading books across the tables, some half-asleep, some scribbling notes, everyone wrapped in that quiet pact of concentration even though it is the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday. They must be nearing some deadline or maybe a finishing project for their course.
The whole place smells faintly of roasted beans and rain on asphalt.
How did Satoru not tell you of this place before?
Upon scanning the whole place, you find Suguru with a few more people than expected.
He raises his arm to grab your attention to the big table he is seated on, near the big windows and the leather armchairs.
It’s a booth more than an actual regular table, with space enough to fit three people on each long leather couch.
There are four of those booths around the cafe’s second floor and all of them are occupied today.
Suguru is usually in an all black outfit as well, but today he wisely chose a crimson, all torn-up tank top, — that shows to the world most of his torso and the many tattoos he has scattered on his body — black skinny jeans and his worn out red all stars.
At least he doesn’t look like he’s having a bad time with the heat.
Between him and the window you spot Toji with a simple v-neck navy t-shirt and probably a pair of worn out jeans that seems to be the only kind of pants he wears everywhere, but you can’t see much from there, you just know he’s entertained by something he’s seeing outside.
On Suguru’s other side there’s a girl you don’t recognize, probably Satoru’s friend who has been seized by Suguru, since he has his arm resting around her shoulders.
Or maybe he knows her as well.
She’s donning a dark orange tank top that shows her belly and the cute shiny piercing she has on her navel, and a pair of off white micro shorts. She has big black lita boots on with golden spikes on its entire back, and you see it matches with the black leather jacket she has folded over the table just in front of her — the golden spikes are the same as the boots’ and they look like they cover both jacket's arms in a large stripe.
Yes, that’s definitely Satoru’s stylist friend.
In front of the trio there’s a sprawled big figure with that unmistakable pink spiked hair, sitting by himself with both arms resting on top of the booth’s couch backrest.
He has a grey sleeveless shirt on, a hand-styled one since the sleeves’ holes are cut downwards, showing almost the entirety of his torso from the sides.
You see where more of his tattoos start and where they end, how fluid the lines and how steady the black bands are, and one can only imagine how interesting the whole design may be when seen in its entirety.
Hold on, don’t go there.
You also catch a glimpse of something shiny inside his shirt — a nipple piercing? You’re not sure but that wouldn’t be too shocking.
He’s also wearing a black pair of pants that seem too hot and heavy for today’s weather, — not that he seems to be affected by it — and his usual steeltoed black boots.
His eyebrows rise and then crease slightly when your gaze goes back up from his boots and meets his face — a second earlier he was facing the ceiling like he’s been bored to death.
“I decided to check with the guys if they were doing something today, and since none of them had anything better to do I told them to meet me here because Satoru wants to announce something.” Suguru explains as you reach the side of the booth, leaving space for the girl to get up and finally introduce herself.
“So you’re the one behind those sketches,” she says, eyes flicking over you quickly, not in judgment but in curiosity. “I’m Nobara Kugisaki. I’m the one who stitched and painted that one pretty design into something he could actually wear on stage.”
Her tone is matter-of-fact, but you feel pride tucked under every word, the kind that doesn’t apologize for itself.
You instantly like her.
She offers her hand, not tentatively — palm steady, black nails immaculate, like she’s daring you not to take it. And of course you take it and give her the firm handshake she’s expecting.
“I told Gojo I had to meet the designer. Couldn’t just work off more of your sketches without knowing what kind of brain they came from, and of course I knew they came from a woman— as if men had the capability to design such amazing things.” She gestures a bit as she talks, and you wonder if she got that mannerism from Satoru. “And it’s good the other guys are here too so I can actually take their measures before starting the new outfits and masks.”
“You seem really young!” You don’t really think before speaking, but a smile crosses her face and she tucks a stand of her short light brown hair behind her ear.
“Thank you, I’m naturally beautiful like this. Can you believe I’m just in my twenties?” she bats her eyelashes at you and you find her absolutely adorable.
She’s as young as Yuji and already so talented, you want her working with your designs for as long as she wants to.
“And you don’t look bad, either. You’re just… too hot? All black and heavy fabric in this weather, boo? Tsk.” she clicks her tongue as she analyzes your outfit from the boots to your hair sticking to your sweaty face, framing it.
Oh.
You look like shit.
You let out an uncomfortable chuckle and look away for a moment, which makes your eyes lock on Sukuna’s — who picks the worst possible times to be looking back at you.
That smirk on his lips stings because you know you look like shit once again, and he knows you’re thinking it too.
This fucking guy, you swear to god.
“Don’t be like that, Nobara. She’s just a hot goth, and despite the name, goths melt in hot seasons.”
The explanation comes from Satoru who’s still standing by your side, his hand softly resting against your lower back gives you some sort of grounding, and you can see Nobara’s eyes flicker to him and back to you with realization.
“I didn’t mean to be rude, you’re gorgeous! Like! Really! You just need lighter clothes so you won’t overheat, that’s all.” she points to the little paper fan you’re still holding tight in your hand.
And now you’re apologising to her and you don’t even know why.
You didn’t want this poor girl to feel like she owes you any kind of sympathy or pity.
You don’t like when people look at you like you’re some helpless girl.
“Can you all shut up about stupid things and tell us what we’re here for?” Toji’s voice cuts through the tension and you remember that you’re all there for another reason.
Sukuna moves to make space by his side on the couch, and since you and Satoru are the only ones standing up now — Nobara is sitting by Suguru’s side again — you know you’re taking the seat beside him.
Satoru and Sukuna would probably bite each other’s faces off if they stayed too close, you fear.
You sit down and slide until your arm is almost touching Sukuna’s, but you avoid it at all costs. You don’t want him cursing you for being sweaty and sticky near him, or something else he can just spit out within a heartbeat, since he’s not afraid of being an asshole whenever he feels like it.
But he only crosses his arms and rests them over the table top, tapping his fingers against his biceps and looking outside through the window.
His arms were always this big? Did he get this strong by being a drummer, by working in construction sites or by simply hitting the gym?
Satoru sits by your side and cleans his throat to grab everyone’s attention, clapping his hands once and resting both his elbows on the tabletop.
“For the past two weeks I’ve been running an experiment together with our beloved angel of a lyricist, so I could understand better how this new band would be perceived and received by the fans.” he’s gesturing as he speaks, and you know the more excited he gets, the broader his gestures are, so you have to be careful not to be hit by his hands.
You sink back against the leathered backrest of the couch, immediately regretting your decision when you feel the cold sensation of your — now cold — sweat drenched shirt pressing against your back.
“The experiment consisted on releasing two original singles, no instruments but the piano, in full anonymity and tracking the numbers and reactions, also administered by our very competent and hard working designer.”
Each new praise Satoru hands you so informally in the middle of his explanation makes you sink further into the cushioned backrest, but you have a smile on your lips, unable to hide how happy it makes you to have been so useful to his genius.
“Suguru has already been hit by the outstanding success of this short experiment,” and as he says that, Suguru lowly rants something about not being included but Satoru extends one of his arms across the table and holds one of Suguru’s hands, which seems to make him less annoyed. “So now I can say we’re basically ready for the new era. And I’m talking about new outfits, full authorial songs and new gigs, darlings.”
Nobara seems to be the most excited upon hearing the big news, followed by Suguru. Toji nods and asks Satoru to send him the two songs since he’s rarely online and has no social media — which you think it’s psycho behavior nowadays.
You also lear that Sukuna doesn’t have social media either, — not personal accounts anyway — and it just strengthens your previous beliefs.
“And what’s the band’s new name, after all?” Nobara is the one to bring it to the table. “Gojo told me it’s a secret, but I think I need to know if I’m gonna be your official stylist from now on, right? I’m not gonna tell anyone else, I promise.” she’s looking at you with a raised brow, expecting you to tell her she’s right and hand her the name.
You nod before breaking the sad, yet funny news to her.
“The name is so secret we actually don’t know it.” Nobara shoots Satoru an accusatory glance. “Nor does Satoru.”
You chuckle as her thin eyebrows knit together. “But maybe we can figure it out now, right? You can help us.” You offer her a warm, hopeful smile and after a few seconds of frowning she grins and agrees with your proposal.
“I’m not doing shit before I eat something.” Sukuna finally spoke, his deep voice coming out so unexpectedly after a long time of him being silent startled you and made you suddenly turn your head to face him with slightly wide eyes. “What’s that face for, brat? I’m hungry and this is a coffee place. If we don’t order something they’re kicking us out.”
“You just startled me, that’s all. You should eat if you’re hungry.” you mumble and avert your eyes to look back at Suguru who sits directly across you, deciding it’s not worthy to engage in any kind of arguing or quarrelling with Sukuna at that moment.
For the first time in a long while you’re well rested, things are working out fine with the band, there are no more piling projects and college assignments, Nobara is amazing and willing to work with the band, and you’re all just a name away from bringing this new band project fully to life.
He’s not making you lose your temper.
In the end everyone gave in and ordered something to drink and eat.
You order an iced matcha latte and a couple of sorted macarons.
Satoru orders a strawberry shortcake and a strawberry smoothie, he’s a man that knows what he likes and is not afraid to show.
Suguru orders the same as Satoru to eat but he chooses an iced caramel mocha to drink.
Toji orders an espresso and tonic with a tamago sando to eat, and Sukuna has a katsu sando with an iced hojicha.
Nobara doesn’t want to eat anything, she claims to be already full and orders a water bottle.
For once you’re glad Sukuna brought up the food subject amidst the band talk, you didn’t notice you were craving some sugary treats until you gave your drink a first sip.
Your mood immediately improves as the cold matcha slides down your throat.
“Can we please talk about the band’s name now, Kuna?” Suguru croons at him over the edge of his glass and you can feel Sukuna’s massive body tense by your side almost immediately. You glance at him very subtly while picking up one of your macarons from the plate and slowly guiding it to your lips.
Kuna?
“What the fuck did you just call me?” his tone isn’t aggressive or threatening despite his rude phrasing. It’s more like a curiosity, and you can feel his amusement growing by the way he bares his teeth on the large grin he’s wearing.
“Isn’t that your nickname? I thought it was cute. Like Kuma.” Suguru’s elbow is propped on the table, his fist pressed against the side of his face as he tilts his glass at Sukuna in the most nonchalant way, making the metallic straw clink on the glass’ edge. “An old friend of yours asked me if you’re playing on God’s Beneath now.”
Oh, gossip! You’re invested.
And so is everyone else, except for Toji who’s just watching the pedestrians outside while eating his sandwich quietly.
He doesn’t have social media, has no interest in shallow, unharmful gossip, doesn’t care about his work buddy’s old friends... How does he entertain himself?
“No friend of mine call me that.” he deadpans and takes a large sip of his hojicha, his red eyes fixed on Suguru’s. “But I know a couple of fuckers who do. Little shits can’t get off my dick.” he sucks his teeth in annoyance and takes another bite of his food, dipping his chin to stare at you with a cocked brow when he hears you chuckling right next to him — admiring your audacity.
“It’s a cute nickname.” you offer with a slight smirk as you finish chewing on your macaron. “But I don’t see him as a Kuma. He’s more like a… Tora.” you tell Suguru, who agrees almost immediately.
He does look like a big tiger if you consider all the black ink crawling on his body on those interesting symmetrical patterns, his behavior, his size, how each of his movements seem to be preciously calculated—
“Oh, you think it’s a cute nickname?” he mocks you, clicking his tongue and narrowing his eyes as he leans in closer to you.
His broad frame and towering height make him look very intimidating, more so when you think he can probably throw you around like you weigh nothing more than a bunch of grapes if he wants to, but you’re not backing down right now.
You know he’s just messing around, he’s not angry or anything.
Right?
“It’s cuter than brat.” You shrug it off and try your best to keep your breath steady as he narrows the distance between you even further, testing if you’re running away, flinching or stopping him with your hand as you did once at your apartment.
But if you hadn’t done that he would have bitten you back then.
Right…?
You can feel Satoru’s body shifting by your side, apprehensive, and Suguru and Nobara’s unblinking eyes never leaving your face.
“If you don’t like to be called a brat, you shouldn’t act like one, don’t you think?” he purrs dangerously, flashing his teeth in another wide, demonic grin, red orbs pinning you down. “But if you insist, I can find another pet name for you. A more suitable one.”
Once again he’s so close you can smell the hojicha in his breath, and the faint smell of his cologne mixed with that familiar coppery smell of his cigarettes.
Your eyes flick from his eyes down to his bared teeth, — too close, biting distance, careful — and back up to his eyes again.
“Are they fighting or flirting?” Nobara whispers to Suguru, cutting the tension for a brief moment and dragging your confused gaze to her face, but the effort in whispering is useless since the whole booth can obviously hear her.
“Bara, dear, if you find out what’s up with them you tell me, because I have no fucking clue.” Suguru whispers back but less quietly, very aware you’re all hearing them clearly.
The thought of flirting with Sukuna alone made your body shiver and your brows knit together, but something in your expression must have entertained him, because by the time you lock your eyes back with him, he snaps his teeth, biting the air and making you jump softly in fright.
Then he laughs and leans back to his previous position, increasing once again the space between you two.
He also holds one of your macarons between his fingers — he probably snuck it out your plate when you were distracted with the other two whispering loudly across the table.
Fucker.
His eyes dare you to go take back what’s yours, and his smirk is large enough to crease his eyes, but with a heavy sigh you decide to fix your posture, press your back against the backrest and let him have it as you go back to sipping your matcha.
The visible disappointment of Suguru and Nobara came in a heavy sigh.
And by the deep breath you hear coming from your other side, Satoru is relieved you didn’t indulge Sukuna further in his games.
“So, the name.” Toji looks like he’s done with his sandwich and with his drink, now there’s only this matter holding him there. “What’s on your mind?”
Instinctively you wait for Satoru to answer, but you notice Toji’s eyes are on you.
He wants to know your ideas.
You open your mouth, but Suguru raises his index finger and drives his hand forward to silence you before you say anything.
“You tell what you’re thinking first.” he glances back at Toji, who furrows his brows in a puzzled expression. “We save the best for last, so she talks when we all finish vomiting our nonsense.”
His dark eyes find yours and the sly smile across his lips makes you blush harder than the words he just spoke.
You’re a praise junkie and today you’re getting so fucking high today.
“Ashen Crown. Thought it would be fitting after we killed Gods Beneath as it made its first good song.” Toji finally tells his idea and, as Suguru glances at you once again, you understand his intentions quickly.
You grab your phone from your pocket and start taking note of what’s said. Your backpack, notebook, laptop and everything else were forgotten on Satoru’s parked car, you’d have them back when he dropped you back at the apartment.
“You, Kuna. What do you bring to the table after Black Halberd?” Suguru tips his chin at Sukuna, who groans — his upper lip curls back across a single canine.
You have to say you quite like the way Suguru can gnawn at his nerves so easily.
“Hymns for the Unholy.” He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning further back against the couch after offering Suguru what he wanted.
Do his arms look even bigger when he does that?
“I’m fond of Beneath the Veil.” Suguru speaks, gesturing loosely before letting his gaze fall on Nobara, who widens her eyes slightly before opening a big smile regarding the position of importance Suguru puts her opinion in.
“Based on what I know and what Gojo told me when he brought me the designs, I think Votive Silence is a good name for the new brand you’re going for the band.”
Finally Suguru smiles at Satoru, who has been quietly sipping the last of his smoothie and terribly quiet for a while.
Sukuna’s presence might take a bigger toll on him than you thought, seeming to wear him out and drain him from all his chaotic energy.
“I was thinking something like What Lies Beneath.” He places the now empty cup on the coaster and tilts his head, raising his hand to gesture as he tries to explain. “Referencing Gods Beneath and the new anonymity we’re diving into, but I think it would be too easy to trace back to our original band.” as he concludes you notice his usual cheery spirit is nowhere to be seen.
Nudging at his arm with your shoulder you grab his attention briefly before Suguru calls you to speak.
“I liked the connection you made with Gods Beneath, don’t patronize yourself.” and with that you see the corners of his lips curling up and soon after the usual smirk is back on that face.
“You’re saying this just because you like to keep your muse happy, isn’t that rig— AH!” You hear the thud from the kick Suguru gave Satoru’s sheen under the table before you hear his yelp. “Don’t need to be jealous, Guru, you’re still my muse, okay?”
Leaving all that chatter in the background, you’re back at your phone fusing a few of the ideas you got from what each member suggested, and once you’re done there you can tell Suguru what’s your input for the band’s name.
You try to make all the names work together, you try to bring them all to harmony and brew a particularly good idea, one remarking name, but it’s not coming to you as easily as you thought it would.
Your thoughts are too messy, it’s so much easier to unravel Satoru’s chaos — your chaos is too thorny, too entangled, too hard.
You actually lost track of the time for a bit there, sinking in your own little world while typing, erasing, typing again, opening another tab, researching something — and going back to typing.
At some point you had a pile of napkins scattered over the table and someone’s pen firmly sketching a few ideas onto the white paper pieces.
The chatter, the rattling of the plates on other tables, the faint lo-fi music — everything else seems to have been muffled, disappearing completely.
You really get stuck deep into your mind sometimes, and from this moment on, all that exists is a big bowl of uncooked thoughts and concepts ready for you to sort them out, turning them into something beautiful.
Something unique.
You wonder why is this taking so long this time when you crumple a sketched napkin inside a fist.
What are you failing to see?
Gods Beneath came so easily for you when Satoru asked what should be the name of this band you and Maki put so much passion into creating.
What’s different now?
Maki’s absence? Sukuna’s oppressive presence? Satoru’s lack of energy?
No, it’s not about them. They’re not the problem, you are.
The sleeping pills are fucking up your thinking abilities and destroying your brain little by little.
Soon you’ll be nothing more than an empty shell.
A husk of what you used to be.
Destruction.
Your eyes flare and you finally understand where you’re collapsing.
Your teeth find the insides of your cheeks and you start to sketch something with more precision now. Rapid, fluid movements creating what you saw in that moment of realization.
A few simple, geometric lines, a human skull, deer antlers, and maybe a sigil.
The taste of iron pools in your mouth and you stop chewing at your own flesh.
You can refine it later, first you gotta make it exist.
“Cenotaph.”
You breathe softly only to yourself, eyes fixed on the final idea you come with scribbled and sketched on a coffee shop napkin.
And you really like it.
While scribbling and sketching you have hunched over the table and completely covered what you were working creating with your frame — but once you raise your head and drop the pen on the table with a soft clack, you hear Suguru repeating the same thing he said earlier.
“There she is! Told you, save the best for last.” and you beam him with such a bright, content smile that he gets almost immediately flustered.
“You look like a maniac.” Toji raises a brow, but then offers you a slight smirk. “It’s riveting.”
Did you ever show any of your friends such an honest smile?
Or any sort of real emotions with no hidden worries and reservations?
You don’t think so.
After gods know how much time you spent trying to come out with a perfect name that would please everyone, you don’t have enough energy to keep your mask on so firmly.
Whatever you feel right now seems like it’s coming through with full force.
Satoru and Sukuna are inadvertently leaning over your shoulders, trying to peek at the few scattered napkins.
“A Cenotaph is an empty monument that is usually built in honor of a person or group of people whose remains are elsewhere, or lost.”
You start talking and again the eyes of everyone in that booth are entirely on you.
“Most cenotaphs honor individuals, but many noted cenotaphs are also dedicated to the memories of groups!”
Straightening yourself slowly, you hear your body cracking, and the relief that comes after is quick and delicious.
“That’s what I thought for the band’s new name. Cenotaph. Gods Beneath died for everyone else, but there are no remains to be buried since the band didn’t actually die.”
The lo-fi music, the rattling of kitchenware and plates, the distant chatter of others, all of it you’re hearing once again. But you don’t hear another word from the ones surrounding you when you finish talking about your idea.
Oh no.
Studying their faces with a slightly tilted head you still don’t know if they cared for your explanation.
Suguru seems to be contemplating the name, mouthing it quietly like he’s savoring its sounding.
Nobara has her phone in her hands and seems to be diligently typing something.
Toji is hunched over the table to take a closer look at the sketch of the logo and the band name you came up with.
Satoru has his head tilted and one of the napkins with a few scribbles — mending the concept of death and destruction, finally trailing to the cenotaph — held close to his face as he stares at it. Both brows furrowed, really focused.
Sukuna stares down at you with an unreadable expression; slit eyebrow cocked and red orbs like stone when he catches your eyes on him.
They hate it.
It’s not good enough.
But they don’t want to hurt your feelings.
They always try to spare you.
Like you’re some fragile, pathetic little girl that can’t take a no.
They had so much expectation and you delivered absolute hot garbage.
You hide your trembling hands under the offwhite table’s cloth, resting them over your lap with intertwined fingers to increase your purchase and decrease the rising anxiety eating at you.
“I’m sorr—” as soon as you start speaking in that low, almost inaudible tone, you hastily interrupt yourself as Sukuna’s big, warm palm splay over your joined hands.
His hand is so big it covers your shaky, cold fingers with ease.
An alien feeling engulfs you entirely and you’re not sure what’s that overwhelming sensation taking care of your body.
His hands are calloused — probably because of his construction work and from playing the drums — but you didn’t expect them to have such a gentle touch.
And you absolutely, never, ever expected him, of all people, to be the one anchoring you from spiraling down.
Not by offering a calm touch.
Not by brushing of the pad of his thumb against the back of your hand in a calming, circling motion.
Not by— anything, really.
You snap your head to face him, completely bewildered.
Those big deer eyes of yours are flooded with silent uncertainty and apprehension.
Breathe.
Put your mask back on, you’re showing fear. Stop it.
Inhale.
You’re vulnerable, this can’t happen. Not now, not ever.
Exhale.
Then, his lips twitch, corners curling in a growing smirk, staring at you intently as if drinking from your raw reaction.
You feel your stomach sinking, you don’t know what’s happening.
Is he offering comfort or harm?
He tips his chin at the other side of the table before carefully retreating his hand from over yours in a way nobody notices the motion.
And you look at Suguru just in time to hear him talking to you.
“How come people call Satoru a genius when you’re literally there.” he lets out a heavy sigh and crosses his arms over his chest before raising his look from the napkin-covered-table to your face.
Nobara is now looking at the napkin Satoru had on his hands a few seconds ago, and typing on her cellphone again.
“I know we need the other outfits first but I really want to start making merch with this logo… and this name is not registered nor taken by anyone else, so… I grabbed it on most platforms for you. Let’s just do the things!” she whines and uses her phone to take detailed pictures of the napkins, starting with the one Toji had grabbed to analyze first.
She was searching for the name to make sure she could register it on social media first. Fucking brilliant.
“You really liked it?” your voice cracks a little, Nobara nods and lets out a ‘duh’, and you hear a huff coming from your right side.
Turning your head to face the author of the huffing for a moment, you understand he is somehow frustrated with the lack of confidence you have in yourself. Strangely reassuring.
His arms are crossed again and his jaw tightens when you offer him a brief, but honest warm smile.
Looking to the opposite side you catch Satoru still vexed at that one napkin, and his lack of comments are making you nervous again.
Fortunately he raises his look from the thin paper filled with scribbles and locks eyes with you.
A crease forms between his brows and he suddenly slides in closer, letting go of the napkin and cupping your face in both his warm, soft hands.
His touch alone is soothing.
“What’s up with that sad face, sugar?” your initial confusion dissolves as you understand he’s just worried.
Is it that easy to see through you?
You have no idea of what you look like as of now.
You were melting when you arrived, you then became a little manic as you drew and scribbled for a few hours — or so you suppose — and then you almost started bawling your eyes out because you convinced yourself you let everyone down with your stupid idea.
You probably look like shit.
A chuckle bubbles up from your chest and rolls out of your lips.
You take a deep breath as uninvited tears slide down your cheeks before you untangle your fingers and move both your hands to Satoru’s, gently removing his hands from your face.
Then, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him to a tight hug you definitely needed.
He’s dumbfounded at first, you never initiate those kinds of actions, — he’s pretty sure — yet he’s basking in it, a smile crossing his entire face as he hugs you back, not even caring to understand the reason behind the hug before letting one of his hands caress your back in a calming motion.
Satoru probably feels like he’s always petting and playing with a wary cat when he’s around you, and one day that cat willingly lays on his lap and starts purring.
You’re aware you’re hugging him as tight as you can.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
You’re aware you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck and giving all you’ve got to hold back your tears and choke your sniffles.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
You’re painfully aware your self doubt is huge, annoying as fuck and that it will one day put you in very awkward situations — such as this one you’re in right now.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
You’re aware you probably look crazy.
Satoru makes you promise you’re telling him if something is wrong, but you insist you’re just a little emotional and wasn’t expecting such good reactions, that’s all.
Sukuna scoffs by your side and calls you an impatient crybaby.
He’s not that wrong this time. Still rude and uncalled for.
“Then it’s settled. Cenotaph it is. The logo idea gives a good tattoo concept as well.” Toji seems to have liked it as well.
You’re in deep need of a little self esteem.
And you’re also in deep need of understanding why Sukuna is the way he is. Why he keeps trying to push you to your limits at every single interaction you have.
What an insufferable, complicated man.
Notes:
Poor girl needs some shots of self esteem, but maybe vodka could do the trick just as good.
Next Chapter is Sukuna POV, let's see a bit of why he is the way he is.
Chapter 10: Calamity
Summary:
Just a little dive into Sukuna's childhood.
cw/tw: domestic violence, blood, mild violence
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Calamity
Sukuna POV
He is born in silence.
His mother, who wanted so much to meet her beloved son, never makes it out of the delivery room. And for that his father makes sure to remind him of it every single day since.
Every look he gives the boy carries the same accusation — you killed her.
But it doesn’t stay only in the looks, oh no.
It bleeds into venomous, sharp words.
Ryoumen Arata, his father, makes sure to let Sukuna know from a young age that he is responsible for his mother’s own death.
That he, a wretched, cursed child, should have died on that night, and not the woman who gave him life.
That he would trade his mother’s life for Sukuna’s within a heartbeat.
Still, he keeps the boy.
Itadori Haruka. Sukuna’s aunt — his mother’s older sister — is the one who takes care of him, but barely. She just makes sure he stays alive, fed, and clean. There’s no offer of comfort or love from her even though she’s his aunt.
She moves into the family’s house soon after his mother passed away, offering company to his father in an attempt to, at the same time, ease the pain of losing her sister.
Needless to say that it doesn’t work in the slightest, just makes everything messier, worse.
He’s still too young when he learns that when his father is drunk — which is most nights — he’s supposed to stay out of reach. His aunt doesn’t seem to understand or accept it, though, and soon the house turns into a horrifying hostility show.
Shrieks echo, rageful roars blast from Arata, the noise of glass shattering as he tosses a glass in her direction, furniture being smashed shortly after.
Sukuna learned how to hide, how to stay out of the way until only silence remained.
Everything that stays in his father’s way would, ipso facto, be ravaged.
At school, the other children know he’s different. He doesn’t laugh when they do. He doesn’t find their games interesting nor does he take part in their conversations and playtimes. When pushed, he doesn’t push back — he waits, he watches, and then he erupts with a violence too monstrous for a boy his size and age.
One of the most graphic memories he has to this day is from when he was only six years old.
He was expelled from the shogakko at that age.
A boy mocks him in front of the class, not expecting Sukuna to react immediately. And he doesn’t react immediately, instead, he waits for the perfect opportunity.
He waits until this boy is cocky enough, until he thinks he got away — unharmed — with mocking him in front of everyone, and attacks.
It’s bloody and vicious.
He grabs the kid by the nape and just shoves him down face first. Teeth clicking against tile, panicked screaming and crying. Sukuna is mounted on his back, both little hands grabbing his hair in an unrelenting grip and smashing his face against the floor until the teacher drags him off.
He remembers the awful cracking noises of the teeth, the wet sickening sound of meat meeting bloodied tile. He’s dragged off to the principal’s room by a teacher, and he doesn’t react. Just stares, breathing hard, as if daring anyone else to try and mess with him.
He’s six, he shouldn’t be capable of such ruthless violence.
They call him dangerous, but his father has been calling him worse since he remembers, so it doesn’t bother him.
He’s expelled, shuffled into another school. The story repeats.
It’s a vicious cycle — he hasn’t known love, warmth, comfort, sympathy or anything that resembles any of those things his whole life.
Why would he bother showing someone else anything different from what’s been shown to him?
By the time he turns ten, the house has grown colder, if that’s even possible.
His father remarries a woman with tired eyes and a sharp mouth.The same woman who has moved in since his mother died and who has been showing him little more than tolerance through his life.
He marries the older sister of his late wife. His aunt.
She tolerates Sukuna like one might tolerate mold in the corner of a wall. It’s there, tainting an otherwise perfect room, but too much effort to scrape away.
When her son is born, Itadori Yuji, she pours every scrap of care into the newborn boy. She showers him in love, treasures him with her whole soul, gives him everything she could never give her neglected nephew and now step son. And that lasts for about a year or two until she gets overwhelmed with the responsibilities of being a mother and Sukuna is the one left to take care of the infant.
He wonders if the family name is the one that comes with the curse of being the way he is, so maybe Yuji is free from it.
Sukuna doesn’t blame Yuji nor resents the boy, but he doesn’t love him either — not at first.
It starts to change when Yuji wobbles through his first steps, bright-eyed and naive, Sukuna realizes something that this baby couldn’t possibly yet.
Someone has to keep him alive and out of his drunk father’s calamity path.
And it sure as hell won’t be his pushover mother.
The house is a war zone every now and then and this isn’t new to Sukuna. Bottles shatter against walls, fists slam into tables, a wooden chair gets completely wrecked by tremendous force applied when throwing it against the floor. Then, it gets quiet — and it begins again when Yuji’s mother starts sobbing, fueling Arata's rage once again.
Sukuna is used to absorbing it in silence, the difference now is he’s keeping the small, soft little baby company by the crib’s side in his bedroom, keeping him from crying, thus avoiding the devastation to come inside the bedroom.
By the time Sukuna enrolls in high school, he already knows he doesn’t belong anywhere and never will.
He starts dying his hair black before the classes start anyway, the pink reminds him of his father, whom he doesn’t want shit to do with.
Classrooms are cages for him, and teachers are weak men pretending their pretty words have weight. He shows up because attendance keeps authorities off his back and he can’t afford a criminal record this early in life if he intends to leave the hell he lives in, but his eyes never stay on the board for long. It’s too boring.
Uraume sits beside him from day one.
The Kamo kid with skin pale as porcelain, pink hued eyes and silver hair that catches the fluorescent light like steel. This kid has three other brothers in the same school, Sukuna noticed by the family name, but all the other three have stark black hair and dark colored eyes.
They don’t talk much,just share a silence that feels almost like recognition.
Uraume doesn’t flinch at him. Doesn’t whisper rumors behind his back. They just look at him, calm, level, and then pass him their notes when he zones out without any comments or annoying lectures.
That’s enough for Sukuna to take a liking to them.
He doesn’t see them as a friend, after all, he feels like he’s above these kinds of futile relationships, but Uraume is the one person he allows to orbit close, the one shadow that doesn’t bother nor bore him. They follow him into the cafeteria, onto the roof, into fights behind the gym.
Never once do they tell him to stop, but sometimes, their cool voice slips through when things get too bad.
“If you hit him that hard, he won’t get back up.”
It isn't concern for the person being beaten restlessly. It’s advice. And Sukuna listens.
The rest of the school is noise and distractions.
Filled with idiots who test him, then regret it when his fists leave them beyond bruised. Teachers who try to “straighten him out” only to meet that flat, unreadable stare and realize he’s not some charity project they can fix. He’s not a poor kid that goes to state school because their parents can’t afford it.
They’re not sure if he’s a kid anymore despite being fifteen — and he isn’t sure about it either, after all he hasn’t been allowed to be a kid since he was born.
Then, in the middle of the dullness there’s Yorozu.
She’s chaotic, loud, disorder wrapped in a mini skirt, laughter pitched just a little too high, eyes burning with sick obsession.
The first time she sees Sukuna fight, blood on his knuckles, grin slashing across his face, she decides he belongs to her.
She corners him after class, and he lets it happen because her boldness amuses him.
She lets her words spill fast, a lot of promises he doesn’t pay attention to, declarations, nonsense about fate.
He lets it happen because that’s one good way to skip classes as a teenager filled with hormones.
It’s carnal, messy, violent.
He finds out he likes to dominate, command, and take what he wants. He likes to inflict pain and takes pleasure in doing so, and she likes when he hurts her.
She likes his fists around her neck and his slaps across her face.
They fuck in an abandoned classroom near the end of the school period. When it’s over, she’s clinging to him, whispering sweet nothings and telling him how they are really meant to be, they only fucked once and the bitch is already demanding his full attention.
He feels nothing for her, but he indulges her a few more times — he won’t deny a hot set of holes to fuck when he’s in the mood.
He keeps her at arm’s reach, never too close, never too comfortable, but he makes the mistake of letting whatever this is keep happening for a whole year, she’s becoming more invasive, too curious, trying to invite herself into Uraume’s house.
Too fucking annoying.
One day he just tells her they’re done.
“You bore me.” he states when she demands to know why he’s dumping her out of nowhere.
Her voice rises, shrill, carrying down the hallways as she calls him cruel, a monster, heartless, savage — everything he’s already heard a thousand times, so he doesn’t even turn around to witness her meltdown.
For weeks, months even, she follows him.
She shouts his name during class, scribbles confessions into his notebook when he isn’t looking, picks fights with Uraume for no reason, tries to pick fights with him but once was enough for her to leave with a sprained, bruised wrist.
Sukuna ignores her with the same detached calm he ignores most things around him.
The more she claws and whines for his attention, the less he gives.
Uraume is the one who steadies it when Sukuna asks them once what their thoughts are.
“She’ll burn herself out,” they murmur, walking home together.
Uraume lives in the way between the school they attend and Sukuna’s house, which is very convenient.
“Good,” he chuckles. “Let her.”
It becomes his pattern in high school, violence when he chooses it, silence when he doesn’t.
Uraume as his shadow, Yorozu as the ghost who won’t leave him alone, and through it all, Sukuna grows harder, crueler, more malicious. The boy turning into the man who knows the world will never soften for him — so might as well carve it to his shape instead.
And it has been like that for the entirety of his school years until one particularly fucked up night, a few weeks after graduating high school.
Sukuna is back from his rehearsal already.
He’s seventeen and so far he has picked more fights than he could count, started a rock band with a few school colleagues, had his face pierced, tattoos covering many parts of his body and was already smoking cigarettes every now and then.
He didn’t do it inside the house, though, Yuji was too young and already dealing with too much shit to become a second-hand-smoker thanks to his brother.
It happened too fast for Sukuna to avoid it.
Sukuna is studying the sheet music his bandmate sent him earlier that day in the living room. The TV is on, his stepmother is entertaining Yuji while drinking a glass of wine, because why wouldn’t she?
His father is in the kitchen heating up water to make him and his stepmother dinner.
And by dinner he means instant noodles.
Sukuna is around them every time his stepmother brings Yuji downstairs to spend time with her. At least since the day his father and his step mother started a fight while Yuji was playing on the living room floor mat, right in the middle of the drunk driven destruction to come.
They barely acknowledge Sukuna’s presence and he returns the favor of ignoring them completely until it’s time to feed Yuji and take him to bed.
Small, clumsy hands knock the half full cup of whisky — that their father left unattended while heating the water, probably his third glass of the night — off the counter.
Glass shatters, ripping his father’s attention from the stove to Yuji.
The man turns, kettle in hand, boiling water still spitting from the spout. He raises it, drunken fury spilling from his lips, and Yuji is like a deer in the headlight, frozen in place.
Sukuna moves first.
He jolts up from the couch and in a heartbeat he’s standing in front of Yuji.
The kettle crashes into his face. Scalding heat sears temple, cheek and near his jaw, the hiss of skin burning louder than Yuji’s choked gasp.
Pain claws through him, blinding, but he doesn’t cry out nor screams despite the agony and the foul smell of charred flesh — instead he stands there, steam rising from his skin while standing protectively between him and his brother, staring his father down through the haze.
His father falters just for a second, unsettled by the lack of fear in his son’s eyes, but soon he slides back into the drunk driven rageful man he is.
That scar never fades.
After that night, Sukuna knows there’s no staying, he can’t risk Yuji’s safety around his father and his neglectful, enabler, useless stepmother who just couldn’t care less about what was happening right besides her.
He starts making his bag once he puts Yuji to sleep, grabbing the few things he has among clothes and personal items — Sukuna has just enough to survive in his bedroom and nothing else.
He doesn’t remember when exactly was the last time someone wished him happy birthday and gave him a gift, but he knew it was some blunt teacher back at school, who didn’t know how to keep their nose off his life and tried to offer some sympathy and pity.
He threw it in the trash before even opening the box, right in front of them, and left.
He needs no sympathy, he needs strength.
Once his father is passed out drunk on the couch, he pulls Yuji out of bed, small legs dangling as he hoists him onto his back.
He has already gathered Yuji’s things in the extra space of his half empty bag and also in another backpack.
They were not coming back.
Sukuna ends up at Kamo’s household, Uraume said they could stay for a while with no further questions the moment he saw Sukuna’s half face wrapped in makeshift bandages at his door.
Later, he helps him attend to the burnt wound under the bandages with ointment and some painkillers after letting Yuji settle in the extra guestroom.
Sukuna doesn’t intend to stay long, he needs to fix shit and make sure Yuji is safe until he’s old enough to take care of himself, so he starts to plan.
The following morning is damp, streets still slick from the rain that fell overnight. Sukuna leans against the hood of his stepmother’s parked car, arms crossed, jaw set. His face is half in shadow, the fucked up, soon to be scarred skin catching the first weak light of day. It stings a little less today.
When Haruka steps out, she almost drops her purse at the sight of him.
“What the hell are you doing here? Where’s—”
“Yuji? Somewhere safe.” he deadpans. “So not there.” he tilts his chin towards the house behind her and grins.
Her eyes widen, outrage pushing through her shock as if she would ever notice he’s gone before nightfall. She leaves early in the morning to go to work and doesn’t check on him, she would realize he’s gone only if she fancies playing with him after coming home.
“You can’t just take him! He’s my son!”
Sukuna pushes off the car slowly, letting the movement stretch, deliberate. “Funny. You only remember that when it’s convenient.”
“Don’t you dare. I’ve been the only one trying to hold this house together while your father—” her face hardens when he cuts her off.
“While he drank himself into the floor? While he swung fists at anyone smaller than him, including yourself? You stood right there and watched without saying a word like the pathetic, weak, cowardly woman you are. Don’t try to rewrite the story now.” Each insult is savoured by him, words drenched in poison as his crimson eyes flare in barely contempt anger, never leaving her face.
She grips her bag tighter, knuckles becoming whiter as he takes a step back.
“You… don’t know what it was like for me… I had no power—” the cracking of her voice does nothing to ease off his wrath.
“I don’t know?” he barks and a bitter laugh erupts from deep inside his chest. “You had a fucking choice to protect him, unlike me. Unlike your sister.” Sukuna snaps back, stepping closer.
His shadow falls over her, and she stiffens. Her eyes are flooded with fear and she looks at him like he’s some kind of calamity approaching, ready to take her life.
Good.
“You could’ve protected him. You didn’t, I did.” He points at the right side of his face. “Don’t stand there pretending you’re helpless when all you did was close your pretty little eyes and hope we’d take the blows for you.”
Color rises in her cheeks, more shame than anger as she chokes a sob and raises a hand to her face.
“I loved Yuji. I love him.”
“Then prove it.” His tone is steady as stone now, and his expression becomes flat. “Keep paying for his schooling. Private, public, I don’t care. If you don’t, I’ll find another way. But if you’ve got even a shred of love for that kid, you’ll make sure he doesn’t rot like the rest of us related to Ryoumen fucking Arata.”
“And if I say no? You think you can threaten me?” her voice trembles, a little high pitched — but he catches a hint of dare in it.
He grins wolfishly at that answer, baring teeth and humming, entertained.
Then he leans down slightly, not close enough to touch but close enough she feels the weight of him, the fucked up, soon to be scarred half of his face stark against the morning light. He wonders if she can smell the charred flesh still.
His voice drops to a murmur that terrifies her more than shouting ever could.
“If you don’t… then Yuji finds out the truth. How his mother looked away while his father raised fists at her. How she left him in the same room when the bottles flew and glass shards could cut his tender flesh. How she never once stepped between him and the fire. How rotten she is to the point of drinking herself to sleep every night and letting her sister’s son take care of her own kid.”
Her lips part, but no words come.
Then, another choked sob.
“He loves you now,” Sukuna coos at her, softer still, cruel in its calmness. “Those eyes still shine when they look at you. You really want to watch that die?”
The silence stretches. She blinks hard, lower lip trembling, and finally looks away.
“You’re a monster, just like your father.” she whispers, cleaning the streaming tears with the back of her hand.
“No.” Sukuna straightens, the corner of his mouth twitches in a humorless smirk as he shoves both his hands into his jacket’s pockets.
“I’m far worse.”
He turns and walks away, leaving her on the curb clutching her bag like a shield, staring at the empty street where his figure fades.
She keeps paying for Yuji’s education and Sukuna takes him to see his mother in public places rarely, only when his father is not around, and only because Yuji asks him to.
There were never mentions of Arata asking about his son’s whereabouts, and Sukuna doubts he did even notice their absence. He would only if they were made of liquor, maybe.
Never once did she beg him to come back home, which Sukuna found amusing for someone who claims to be such a loving mother.
Sukuna starts working as soon as he finds a job willing to take him. Construction, hauling, delivering things, walking dogs, anything that pays under the table. His body thickens with the labor and he eventually gathers enough money to start thinking about renting a small place for himself between a multitude of jobs.
Uraume tells him he doesn’t need to pay for anything, he offers shelter to him and Yuji out of consideration and friendship, but Sukuna pays for everything they consume anyway, leaving the money on his kitchen counter every Friday, never failing to do so.
He pays for their half of energy, water, food and gas, since he allows Uraume’s older brother, Noritoshi, to drive Yuji to school and back.
By now, by living in the same house, he learned that Uraume had been adopted by the Kamo family while still a baby, hence their lack of similarity.
They mentioned not knowing who their parents were or what happened to them. To that Sukuna simply commented ‘how lucky’ and Uraume just shrugged, they didn’t really care.
By the time his father finally dies — liver collapsed, body rotting in an empty house until neighbors complained about the smell — Sukuna barely feels anything, he’s almost nineteen now.
He has no idea where his step mother is, but soon he finds out she passed away a few weeks before his father, and the man didn’t even tell her son nor communicate it to the family.
The old man leaves behind just a ruined house — in more ways than one — and a pocket of money.
Just enough for Sukuna to take Yuji legally, enough to mark the end of a chapter and move out from the Kamo household without any debt and back into the old family’s house with Yuji.
He doesn’t grieve, Yuji does for them both.
He doesn’t want to bury him properly, Yuji insists on doing so.
He just stands at the edge of the funeral fire, scar tight on his skin, tattoos dark against his collar. The corner of his lips twinge before they curl up.
The fucker's dead. Yet, Sukuna prevails.
Yuji clings to him with red watery eyes, sniffling and rubbing out the tears from his cheeks as the few people that show up say goodbye to them. Sukuna doesn’t soften, doesn’t say anything comforting to Yuji, just rests a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezes hard enough to make sure he feels it.
And that’s enough.
*****
He didn’t have anything better to do, that far was true, but agreeing to go hear about the nonsensical project of Satoru wasn’t really much better than rotting at his couch. Or finding something to work at and earn a few more bucks.
When he arrives and realizes not everyone is there, he’s immediately annoyed. He doesn’t like waiting around for people, but he sits across Toji on the far left booth near the big window, hooking his arms over the top cap of the seat and tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the others to arrive — hopefully before he gets too bored and decides to leave.
The other man just raises a brow at him to acknowledge his presence and goes back to staring outside through the window, entertained by the never-ending traffic of people crossing.
Soon Suguru arrives with some girl Sukuna hasn't seen before, she says hi and offers her steady hand for him to shake and presumably introduce himself, but he only tilts his head down lazily to look at her for a brief moment before tilting it back again, resting it again on the top-cap of the booth.
“That’s Sukuna, he’s the new drummer of the band. He’s just impolite like that, like a feral cat, don’t mind him.” He hears Suguru making excuses for his behavior, and it has him raising his head again from the top cap of the booth to stare him down as he sits by Toji’s side, pulling the girl to sit by his own side.
Now there’s three places taken in front of him and he remains alone on this side of the booth, splayed like a king on a throne.
“What? Do you think I’ll bite her if she sits by my side so you rather sit all cramped there?” he croons, grinning at Suguru, who’s grinning back for a reason he’s yet to find out.
“I know you’re all bark no bite— but no, I’m simply fond of Toji and it’s not always that I see Nobara, so she’s staying here with me.” His tone is witty, but Sukuna doesn’t believe a word he says. “Besides, I think it would be good for you to sit near Satoru.”
His upper lip twitches as he fights the urge to bare his teeth at just the thought.
“Or maybe by her side.” as Suguru concludes he’s already looking at the stairs’ direction and raising his arm high up for you and Satoru to notice him.
Judging by the way your skin is flushed and how sweaty you are, you’re in need of better clothing choices for the summer heat. And just as Nobara comments on it in a way that makes even Toji shoot her a look, Sukuna grins at her boldness.
She might as well have told you that you look like a pile of hot garbage by the face you made, but when your eyes meet Sukuna’s as you try to avoid conflict, he sees the mask faltering a little — just a small crack.
Any hope is gone when you apologize to her in your irrational, unconditional politeness instead of demanding respect or anything else. His brows furrow and he makes way for you to sit by his side on the booth, as he knows you will.
You prefer to be the one caught in the middle of the fire and endure his presence if it means saving your friend a mild headache.
Always a martyr, huh.
Satoru’s explanation and the entirety of his delusional plan do little to catch Sukuna’s attention, as he prefers to zone out. He's craving a cigarette already.
Maybe something to eat could help, and so he interrupts the nonsensical belt of words to have them order something.
Food did make things more tolerable, and it looked like it had the same effect on you just by your change in posture.
So he endures hearing Satoru for a while more, and when it comes to the band’s naming something interesting finally happens.
He watches closely as it unravels right next to him.
You write things that make sense only to you on your cellphone, he can see how fast you go in many directions with your notes and thoughts, how you try to dissect the meanings of each name given by each people to make them work together — which he’s not sure if it’s a good idea, but the way you start to lose yourself in your thoughts is alluring.
Red eyes watch attentively as you gesture vaguely for a pen, barely mumbling what you need when Suguru hands you one and you snatch the napkins off the whole table to scribble and sketch something.
Suguru, Satoru and Toji seem to be accustomed to this, so you do show fragments of your true self to your friends.
But when you’re finally done — and proud of what you achieved — after long minutes, something doesn’t take long to change and shift in the air.
The shift is small at first — the way your shoulders stiffen, the way your hands fidget under the table, like you’re keeping yourself from clawing at your own skin.
Everyone is silent for a little while, either analyzing your work or trying to understand it better, but they are clearly mesmerized by your final piece and explanation.
You don’t see the silence like it is. You see it as a sign that something terrible is coming.
Nobody sees it eating you from inside out, but Sukuna does.
He’s seen it before, plenty of times.
Not in you — in Yuji. Back when the kid was smaller, softer, caught in the blast radius of their father’s rages, the panic always started following the same pattern.
Shallow breath, twitching hands, eyes darting like a trapped animal.
Back then, if Sukuna didn’t stop it fast, the noise would bring their old man storming in, drunk and looking for something to break.
So Sukuna learned.
A hand on Yuji’s neck, a sharp word, a slight pressure to his arm or hands, sometimes just a look — enough to snap him out of it, to shut him up before things got worse.
The memory irritates him now, he’s not here to babysit anyone — least of all this girl who hides her nerves behind sarcasm and stiff pride like she’s capable of dealing with anything that’s tossed at her.
Your breathing is becoming too shallow, too quick and uneven.
It grates on his nerves.
He won’t sit here and watch you crumble like a kicked dog because you have no self esteem nor half the structure you think you have. He doesn’t stomach weakness when it spills into his space.
So he moves swiftly. Not doing much, just wrapping both your hands in his own and pressing it slightly should be enough to snap you out of it if he’s correct.
That doesn’t come from a gentle place nor from taking pity on you.
It’s command, the same way he’d tell someone to shut up.
And it works the same way — you snap your head to stare at him with those big, alarmed eyes, and for a few seconds he can see you.
The real you. Staring at him and asking what the fuck he’s doing.
And it makes his lips curl up in a smirk when he realizes it may be a little bit easier to break through your veneered masks than he thought.
Then he draws a smooth circle with his thumb on the back of your hand, watching as your mind races and your face starts to redden, thoughts scattering and confusion rooting in your mind.
It's really entertaining to watch.
Your breath stumbles a little, then steadies, and the tension in your fingers eases just barely.
With his gaze still fixed on you, he tilts his chin to point at Suguru and retreats his hand before leaning back, satisfied, leaving the others on the table to wrap you up in tender words and compliments.
Not because he cares — he doesn’t really, and if you fall, it’s on you, but he still wants to be the one making you reach the brink of your limits when the time comes.
Just because he feels like it’s going to be really satisfyingly sweet to watch as you realize you aren’t able to shield your friends from everything like a fucking super hero.
Or when you see that you aren’t able to embrace everyone and their problems while you try to hide all of your flaws and insecurities to be perceived as a stronger person than you are.
He’s been seeing you crack and falter constantly before rebuilding and doing it again, and again, and again. He wonders how long it will take for the pieces to stop being able to glue back together.
He wonders what will you do when it all inevitably explodes on your face — all the commitment, the duties, promises you made and oaths you took, the shit you told yourself and others you could handle alone.
He bets you will break beyond repair.
And he bets this will happen as soon as the band reaches a little bit of fame and you have to manage it all, because of course you’ll do it by yourself.
And that’s why he’s gonna keep tagging along. Control feels better than undeserving chaos and anxiety.
He waits for you to recompose yourself, recollect your fragments and rebuild your façade by his side as they accept the new name you chose.
But it doesn’t happen, you simply stay as you are, raw and vulnerable.
You shoot him a gentle look, a warm, teary smile before turning back and wrapping your arms around Satoru to suffocate your sniffles in his shirt.
His eyebrows knit together and a crease forms over his nose as he studies you, stunned.
Maybe he misinterpreted you.
You’re already broken beyond repair, aren’t you, brat?
Just like he is, but you keep trying to pretend you’re not.
He rests his cheek on a curled fist as he keeps gazing at your back.
The harder the game, the better the prize.
Notes:
Thank you all for bearing with me through all the editing and fixing in the previous chapters. I'm not sure if people prefer longer or shorter chapters so I'll be here just doing my thing
*jazz hands*
paradigma on Chapter 8 Wed 03 Sep 2025 09:19AM UTC
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belimah on Chapter 8 Wed 03 Sep 2025 02:43PM UTC
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