Work Text:
TRACK 1.
You were always told this was a bad part of town. The people, the stores, all the graffiti that runs across every wall and alleyway—signs of sketchy activities. Places that weren't safe. You remember Vienna, Boston, Paris, Shinjuku, sceneries blurring in front of your eyes and coalescing into a single dim alleyway. Your mother would always take your hand and gently lead you away, whenever you lingered too long. Your father would berate you if he knew where you were. If he knew what you've been doing.
Now, one boy stands alone in front of you, his hand extended, a dangerous slant to his grin.
"Hey. Promise me you'll come by here again?"
His piercings catch the light of the street lamp, silver twinkling like the stars you can't see in the city.
"I'll be waiting for you."
You let your mouth hang open uselessly as you search for the words to say. He looks at you, something strange and soft in his eyes, and suddenly you can't bear to meet his gaze anymore.
You turn away instead. He doesn't say anything else, and the only thing left between you is the sound of your footsteps against the concrete.
TRACK 4.
It's gone quiet.
TRACK 2.
Either he's extraordinarily lucky, or he's deliberately seeking you out, because this is about the fourth time you and him have ran into each other without meaning to.
Well—'ran into each other' is generous. Currently, he's standing a few paces away from you, mouth agape, and the hand holding his umbrella seems to be shaking. What emotion is attached to that is completely beyond you. Though, to be fair, you do probably look ridiculous at the moment.
"What the hell are you doing?" he says, after a few more moments of uselessly flapping his lips.
You stare at the ground. Rainwater pools into the cracks in the sidewalk and dribbles out into the street. The sky it reflects is terribly grey.
"I didn't want to go home yet."
"Are you serious? It's eight o' clock." He makes a strangled noise, like a cut-off growl in the back of his throat, and stomps through a puddle to grab you by the arm. "C'mon. You're gonna get sick if you stay like that, and then you're not gonna be able to sing."
A loose smile appears on your face. Of course that's the main issue he comes up with. The simplicity of it almost makes you feel better, honestly. You let him grab you and hoist you upward, off the park bench you were previously trying to melt into.
"Geez, you're completely soaked through…" A hand goes up to scratch at his neck, and he scowls, staring at your drenched school uniform with transparent irritation. He's holding his umbrella over you, now that you're both standing. It doesn't seem to bother him that the back of his clothes are now getting wet. All you can focus on is the sound of his voice, rough around the edges, and the pattering of raindrops above.
You saw each other earlier today, and you assume that must be where half of his current frustration is stemming from. To be more specific, you broke off practice a little over an hour ago because of how the clouds on the horizon had begun to darken. He said he'd text you when to meet up tomorrow, and you nodded, and then he left. You hung around for a few minutes more before walking off yourself, aimlessly leading yourself back toward Shibuya proper. Prolonging the inevitable as long as you could, really.
Then the skies opened up, and here you were.
He coughs into his fist. "I dunno where your place is, but I live like, three stops down from here." His eyes flit from side to side, but never your face. "Uhh. So. If you needed to, y'know. Get outta that."
Your chest aches, for a fleeting moment. "I can't impose on you like that," you say, the response almost automatic, like somebody else is using your body to speak. You would like to, you think, even though you shouldn't.
"What? No, dude, it's fine, I wouldn't offer if I didn't want you to." His words are coming out more rushed now, like he can't keep them in, or maybe that he has to force them out to say them at all. The tightness in his brow, how he keeps squeezing the umbrella handle, him chewing on his lip over and over—this might be what nervousness looks like on him. "I mean, my sister might complain, but I don't care about that, and my mom's usually pretty chill, and I doubt my dad gives a shit. It's fine."
You try to politely decline again, but something catches in your throat and it turns into a sneeze before you can even get a word out. His head jerks up, and then he just grumbles some more and grabs your wrist, pulling you down the street.
"Just stay the night while you're at it, alright?" You can only see the back of his head, now. "I got some clothes you can wear."
Despite the weather, his hand is warm.
TRACK 3.
"Shit!"
A soda can clangs uselessly against the wall and rolls down the road, eventually disappearing into inky nothingness. There's a pause, followed by the scraping of dirt, the thud of a trash bin being toppled over and another string of unsavory words.
You stand by the vending machine and watch. What else can you do?
He staggers the few steps to the wall, leaning back on it and letting his head thump against the brick. "I don't get it." He throws an arm over his eyes. "What gives them the right to talk to us like that? Like our dreams are just nothin' but dirt beneath them. Fuck."
Something you've noticed lately: he's become fond of we and our and us. You're not sure when his dream became plural, but it feels like it would be a misstep to correct him.
"I'm sorry," you say, because that's all you can think to. It seems to work, in some strange way, because his arm falls back down and his gaze turn to you. Frenetic, expression too taut to pass for normal.
"What?" His voice comes out uneven and loud in the wrong places. "You don't got anything to apologize for. Hell, you were insane up there."
He rolls his head back and stares skyward instead. You see the upturn of his lips, and you can't really make sense of that, either. "Seriously, man. Everybody knows you've got a crazy voice."
There's a but tacked on to the end of that sentence. You clear your throat. "You were impressive too."
He scoffs. "You don't have to say shit just to make me feel better."
"I mean it," you answer back. "You were the brightest thing on stage."
"Bright," he mumbles to himself. He starts tugging on his jacket zipper. "You're probably the only one who thinks that."
"Then keep singing until everyone else can see it, too." A sudden frustration possesses you, clinging to every breath. You feel your fists clench at your sides. "If you get knocked down, then all you have to do is stand back up. You're not going to let it end here, are you?"
It doesn't feel like enough. There's more you want to tell him, more you want him to understand, but the right words are just out of reach. How you didn't start singing with him because he was good at it, but because he looked free, burning with a fierce passion entirely his own. Skill is something that can be honed. Passion is another thing entirely, enviable all its own.
"… Yeah. Yeah, of course not," he says, that weird, tight smile still stuck to his face. "We'll just keep going."
Is we'll something you're allowed?
TRACK 5.
He's been staring at the side of your face ever since you left the SEKAI.
Normally this wouldn't bother you. But the events of today have left you feeling a bit—tender, for lack of better words, so you stop and turn to look at him. He blinks, and then takes a sudden interest in the ground.
"Is there something on my face?" you ask. If you were anything but direct, he would've wormed out of it.
"Uh, no. Well. Maybe?"
"… Maybe?"
"I was just wondering if, uh." He frees a hand from his jacket pocket and taps his jaw. "From the other week."
You exhale slowly. It was just over two weeks ago. You were checking the calendar every day afterward.
"I'm not mad about it."
He looks up at you, eyes wide for a moment before scrunching back up in confusion.
You suppose you should be more upset, yes. Most people would be. Your father certainly was, even if he didn't say anything as you walked straight to your room with your head down.
And you certainly weren't expecting it. But it felt like penance.
"Wha—didn't it hurt, though?"
"It did," you say simply. It was tangible, is what it was. "But I'm not mad at you."
Then, something strange happens. He stares at you for a moment longer, then reaches out and takes your chin between his index and thumb. Your breath catches, and it remains motionless in your lungs as he tilts your head to the side.
The bruise healed a few days ago. There's nothing to see.
He drops his hand and sighs, shaking his head. "… Sorry. Let's go."
By the time you remember to move, he's already started walking. You don't know what part of that the apology was meant for.
TRACK 6.
"Please." You're desparate, and it runs through every part of you, a rage boiling in your veins for someone else's sake. "If you keep going like this, then your body—"
"I know what risks I'm taking," he says, and he sounds so, so tired. He'd never admit it, even under pain of death (or more relevantly, risk of fainting), but he's hitting his limit. It terrifies you that he's still moving. "If I thought I could get away with just a normal amount of effort, then I'd do that."
"Please," you whisper. His expression doesn't change; it's that same disaffected look that's haunted him for the last month. He had the decency to mask it before, but even that must take too much effort right now. "I told you before, didn't I? Your singing—"
"—It's still not enough."
You want to understand so, so badly. What is it that you're missing about him?
TRACK 7.
This song isn't coming together at all.
There's nothing wrong with the instruments, you think. The new synth plugin you've been testing supports the percussion pretty well. It's the melody you've been having trouble with. If your file name is to be trusted, this is your fourteenth draft.
Maybe if you change the chord progression? The current one's a bit too generic-pop, and you want something with more of a punch.
After a few more minutes of clicking around and fiddling with intervals, your phone pings from where you'd left it on your bed. You drag yourself out of your chair, wincing at the way your bones immediately complain. Has it been that long already?
Oh. Three texts and a video from him.
> hey ive been trying to work on that chorus you guys pointed out last practice
> the events soon so i seriously gotta nail this
> can you listen and tell me if its good
You tap the video, feeling a smile rise to your face. Seems like he's also in his room, though you can only make out about half of his body, cutting off at the chin. He starts singing, and your eyes fall shut.
It's amazing, as always. Instead of putting too much power on the bridge, he's started drawing it back to save the impact for later. It's a good way to balance out the dynamics, but he's still dragging in that last section. Not as much as earlier, though.
You tap a few messages back.
> You've definitely gotten better
> Make sure you pay attention to the tempo change in the final chorus though
> The rhythm is a little unusual so it's easy to lose the beat
Before you can set your phone back down, the typing indicator appears again.
> ohhhh ok yea
> thanks i'll do that
Knowing him, he's going straight back to practicing so he doesn't lose his focus. You're not so diligent; you sit on the edge of your bed, desk abandoned, and scroll back to the video that he sent, letting it play again.
If you close your eyes again, you can imagine he's singing it for you. He'd probably say something like dude, you can just ask me to sing, we do it all the time if you asked, but it's not quite the same. And right now, it helps. His voice has always had this strange ability to pull you free when you're stuck.
By the time the clip fades back out again, your mind feels a little clearer. Maybe you'll change up the melody again. A key change could be good.
Feeling revitalized, you head back for your desk, phone still in hand.
> Happy to help
TRACK 8.
Today is the first day the dream he gave you truly felt like it was yours. It was also the day that you made it come true, hand-in-hand with the most important people in your life.
Everyone is nothing short of brilliant, even—maybe especially—that eleventh-hour arrival.
It was like I finally knew what I wanted to do with my life, his partner had told you, from the confines of a sterile hospital room. Your own partner had said that exact thing, beat-for-beat, and slowly, you think you're beginning to see what he meant by that.
Your dream is a slightly different shape than his. It always has been, only it took you this long to realize that wasn't a bad thing.
To your left, you see him gripping his mic, white-knuckled, as he stares out into the crowd like a man possessed. His hair blends into the stage lights that halo him, edges flecking into fire. Four years eclipsed into a single, blinding moment. What does he see out there, in that sea of people calling their name?
He coughs out an exhale and turns to you, eyes still wild with exhilaration and sweat sticking his hair down. Then, he smiles wide, all teeth. The sight sends a wild thrill zipping through you, as if you'd been struck by lighting where you stand.
This is your dream, in the end. That you're at his side on every stage, at every performance, in every world. You want to see the moment he burns brightest over and over again, until it's seared beneath your eyelids. Until you don't know where music ends and he begins.
After all, it's never been something you've been able to live without for long.
TRACK 9.
You should be happier than you are.
The flame that was smoldering only a few days ago is back to its usual brilliance. You are happy about this, and you tell him that as you smile, that day in the park. I thought you seemed like your normal self again.
But—it keeps bothering you. That you hadn't actually done anything to help him there. That it was two people he didn't know at all, instead, who were able to reignite that spark in his heart.
It's good that they were able to inspire people with their performance that day, the same way their dream was given to them. But what do they know about what it took to get there? What does it say about you, that you were content to step back and let somebody else fix a problem you noticed?
He told you it was fine, you try to rationalize. And you stepped back because you trust him. So perhaps it wasn't the wrong move, necessarily, but it settles strangely, like a wrist strain you feel every time you move it.
He notices the twist to your expression the next day, like he always does. Not that you were hiding it, necessarily. But the girls had let it go without comment, just as they had his troubles.
An expectation that you two would figure it out, you suppose.
"You're making a face," he says while you're waiting for your train. Two minutes until it's scheduled to arrive.
You tug at your necklace. He only stares back, the rest of the sentence unspoken but entirely understood. Tell me what's going on.
(Shouldn't the street go both ways?)
"If there was something I could help you with," you start, haltingly, "you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
This is a conversation you've had several times before. You know the rest of this piece, and so does he. As the seconds tick down, more people flood the platform, chatter filling the air around you.
"What? Don't be ridiculous, man. I'm relying on you all the time." He breathes out a laugh. "That's what this is about, right? I told you, we wouldn't be partners otherwise."
"You say that," you hear yourself say. Then you lick your lips and glance away, to the end of the subway tunnel. One minute.
You look back up and smile, finding that there are no other words for you to say. His own expression seems to slowly crumple in on itself, the easy grin morphing into something more like confusion, or worry. "Hey," he says, a bit helplessly. "Seriously, I mean it."
He chews on his lip. Nervousness. "I—"
The rest of his words are swallowed by the clattering of the arriving train. On any other day, you would have asked him to repeat himself.
Today, you tilt your head and say, "I'll see you later."
TRACK 10.
He doesn't acknowledge it until the others take their leave. The suddenness of it catches you off guard.
"That dream sucked."
You blink. He's doing that thing where he's not looking at you again, scuffing the sole of his sneaker on the cafe tiles. He sort of shifts on the couch, sinking back into himself.
"It was… difficult," you say. "It felt so real."
You haven't seen that brother in years. Does his voice still sound like that, just a degree off from your father's with a fraction more warmth? Is his gaze just as piercing? Would he support you now, just as he did in there?
"In that dream," he starts slowly, "you didn't tell me you left."
You both know why you didn't. He especially should, but there's a strange undertone of hurt beneath his words. You open your mouth to apologize, knowing you'll probably just be told off for it, but he continues on before you can even speak.
"Kusanagi had to tell me. I hated that. Not knowing where you were, what you were thinking… hell, even when you got back… ugh." He covers his face with a hand. "I'm sounding stupid."
"You're not." There's an urge to pull his hand away that you bravely ignore. "I want to hear your thoughts."
He grumbles. "I hated it."
After that, he goes quiet. Long enough for you to think he's just going to end it there, and you'd be left holding on tightly to the few pieces of himself he felt like handing over today. But then he sighs and lets his arm fall limply to his side. His hand brushes against yours, and you do not move.
"You remember what I said earlier?"
He said a lot of things earlier. You shake your head. "You'd have to be more specific."
"Don't do that again."
You smile guiltily, though he's not even looking. "I said I won't."
That seems to satisfy him enough. He closes his eyes again, as if he's trying to fall asleep right here. You stretch your pinky out, trying to catch his, mostly to see if he'd let you.
And he does, linking them and squeezing tight. Your chest burns with—something. The feeling you never had a reason to name, before him.
TRACK 11.
Going worldwide involves far more paperwork than any of you had ever imagined.
It's sort of like one of those positive correlation line graphs. The more paperwork that has to be done, the more often a drinking party is suggested in the VBS LINE chat. You'll all have to learn better ways to handle the stress, but you suppose it's fine at twenty to be a little indulgent.
All this to say, he's currently stumbling through the doorway of your shared apartment, muttering something you can't make out as he tries to get out of his boots. Which he always wears this time of year, even though he complains about how much of a pain they are to lace up every time. The inebriation surely isn't helping.
"Be careful," you say gently, walking over to guide him into a proper sitting position and closing the door behind him. He makes another garbled noise, still clumsily pulling at his boots. You exhale a little laugh through your nose, and he turns toward you slowly, face pulled into a pout.
Like you've done every other time, you tug at his shoelaces to loosen them and pull his right foot free, setting the boot on the nearby rack. Then the next one. His eyes don't leave you the entire time.
You never really thought about what he'd be like drunk. Rowdy and competitive was to be expected, but it was this that surprised you the most—the silence that followed, tranquil in a way you didn't think he was capable of.
"Let's get you to your room." With his shoes off, you loop an arm under his and stand up. It takes a lot more effort than it should, given that he's about half dead weight and heavier than you are, but you manage to orient yourself into a standing position soon enough. You make it about ten steps down the hall before that dead weight starts dragging you back again.
Somewhere between here and the entryway, his arms come to circle your waist, and he plants his face into the side of your neck. Your skin burns where you can feel his lips brushing against it, long breaths rolling against your shoulder. You clench your fist, count to five, and then let go.
"You have to go to bed," you say. It does nothing. He's warm, warm, warm, all around you, and you don't even have the luxury of blaming alcohol for the flush on your face.
"Wanna stay right here," he mumbles into your neck. "Jus' like this."
God. What?
Carefully, you attempt to turn yourself around in his grip, and are very quickly met with the realization of how terrible an idea that was. His gaze is cloudy as he looks up at you, and your heart squeezes like it's about to pop.
"I'll be here in the morning," you remind him. "You see me every day already. We live together."
"Hrmmggh," comes his reply.
You raise a hand to brush his bangs behind his ears, and he follows the motion naturally, tilting his head into your palm. You'll have to remind him to cut them later, when you're both of clearer mind. Or maybe not. You always thought the longer hair suited him.
You leave your hand there, resting on his cheek. "Don't do anything you'll regret," you say, hypocrite that you are.
His face scrunches almost immediately, as if he's bitten into something sour. "There's too much," he answers, voice thin, before letting go of you.
He trudges down the hall, trailing a hand along the wall for support as he staggers along.
All you can do is watch him disappear behind his door, and lament the warmth that leaves with it.
TRACK 12.
"Oh, the fireworks are starting again."
He shuts the TV off and the entire apartment plunges into darkness. Every few seconds, splashes of color come in through the window, and he walks up to it like a moth drawn to a flame.
His hand hesitates on the sliding door lock, and he glances back at you, lips drawn up in one of those worried smiles.
"Guessing you don't wanna come out here?"
Here is your fourth-floor balcony, hardly large enough to fit two people shoulder-to-shoulder. That last part is only an estimation, considering in all two years of living in this apartment you've never actually stood on it. He's really only saying this to be polite, and he wouldn't think of you any less if… no, is probably expecting you to say no. And you're about to; the mere thought is enough to make your stomach swoop.
The quiet stretches on for long enough that he starts turning back around again, clicking the door open, and—
"Wait!"
Suddenly, you're standing upright. His head snaps back, and he's utterly motionless until you're reaching for the door yourself, and then he covers the lock with one of his hands.
"You sure, dude? I don't want you puking off the side of the building."
He means this as a joke, surely, but the possibility of it is real enough for you to frown. Even still, you really, really want to try.
"Just for a few minutes. I want to see," you say, and you nudge his hand out of the way to shove the door aside, a wall of heat instantly hitting you. It takes a few seconds (or maybe several) but you place one foot on the balcony, then the other, until you're standing out there in the hot summer air.
You hear him laugh quietly behind you, and then he squeezes into whatever space is left, his shoulder knocking against yours.
"Look at you," he says, a note of genuine pride in his voice. "You're only death-gripping the railing."
Hm. You glance down for a second to confirm this, and—shit. Your self-preservation instincts kick in and your eyes snap shut. Instantly, there's a hand on your back, and it's all you can do to focus on the weight of it.
"Whoa, sorry," he says. His thumb starts to sweep back and forth, and with each brush a little bit more of the tension that's pulled you taut starts to loosen. "Hey, you're alright. Go back inside if you gotta."
"N-No," you grit out. You crack an eye open, fixing it to the horizon. There's a whistle, a beat, and then a brilliant burst of color, greens and reds crackling and fading into the night. Just below that, only visible from right here, you can see its reflection in the river that runs alongside.
The fear never fully leaves you. You're all but rooted in place, elbows locked as if you're trying to push yourself away from the railing, but you stand anyway, watching as firework after firework fizzle into the sky.
Once both of your eyes are open again, his hand slides from your back. Another impulse urges you to catch it in yours, and you do, holding on tight. His reaction comes delayed, but he eventually breathes out another laugh and brings your hands up to rest on the wood of the railing.
"I don't understand you sometimes," he says, an odd lilt to the words like he's trying to hide a smile.
Your eyes remain firmly ahead. "What do you mean?"
"You're always so…" he sighs, and the silence is swallowed by another distant explosion. "Stubborn in the weirdest ways, I guess."
That's rich coming from him, of all people. You choose to keep that to yourself. It's not like he's waiting on an answer.
"Hey, what're you gonna do, after all this?"
"Go to bed," you say. He laughs, full-bodied this time, and that's enough to snap your gaze back toward him, confusion clear on your face.
"Hah… I meant after all this," and with his free hand he makes some sort of vague circular gesture that really doesn't explain it any better. "Here. College. The rest of your life, you idiot."
Oh. The answer to that isn't any more difficult.
"Sing with you."
Whatever you have to do to achieve that, for as long as you're allowed. You've wanted that for as long as you've known him.
The thing about your partner is that he's simultaneously incredibly easy to read and extremely difficult when he wants to be. It's caused you no end of grief, but it's also something you've enjoyed piecing together about him, all of his little tells and microexpressions that help you fit together the puzzle of who he is. How sometimes what he says doesn't match what he feels, how sometimes they're complete opposites, or something else entirely. You like to think you've become decently acquainted with this language of his, by now.
Right now, he's smiling, soft and fond in a way you only ever see once in a blue moon. "There's gotta be something else," he says.
It doesn't match.
"There's not. I'm less certain about everything else. All the tours and record labels, planning for our immediate future, I'm willing to figure that out as we go along." You squeeze his hand. "This is the one thing that I know I want, for the rest of my life."
Another burst of light illuminates the side of his face. You can't tell if it's from the fireworks, but there's a dusting of red across his face all the way up to his ears, only there for a second before he ducks his head.
"That's really it?"
There couldn't be anything else. You nod, and he goes quiet after that. The moment hangs in the air, at risk of disappearing into nothing. So you grab onto that, too.
"What do you want?"
You know him. The one thing that's kept him going up to this point was the fire ignited in him that night, unable to stop for as long as it burned. The answer could be as simple as that, too—to take the world, to cross each new barrier, to completely reinvent himself again and again for each new dream he finds. It's what he's always done.
You know him. So why is his hand trembling in yours?
"Are you—"
It's as soon as you open your mouth that you find the words swallowed up again.
There, bathed in the colors that live for a brilliant moment before dying out and being born anew, he kisses you.
BONUS TRACK.
"Akito," you say, tilting your head back to get a better look at him. He's lounging on the bed, scrolling through something on his phone. "Akito."
"What," he says, still looking away.
"Akito."
"What."
He looks up to catch your gaze, lips pulled into a frown. Embarrassed, more than angry.
"I remembered how much I like the sound of your name, so I wanted to say it," you answer simply, unfazed by how he seems to bristle more. "That's all—ow."
He pulls his hand back from where he'd flicked your forehead. "You're so weird."
You rub at your temple, feigning a hurt look. He rolls back over and goes back to staring at his phone, but you can see over his shoulder that the screen's off.
"… I don't get it."
You hum, turning around fully and resting your arms on the edge of the bed. "What don't you get?"
"It's just a name."
"It's your name."
"Ughhh."
You stifle a laugh. That's the truth, though. Akito is the one who's led you to where you are today. To the place where you can smile and tease and breathe, extending your wings in the way you were always meant to. He's been in so many moments of your life, memories you hold dear for one reason or another, even if it was just the sound of his voice that day.
Because that voice has saved you, time and time again. Of course you'd treasure the name that voice belongs to. It's the most precious thing in the world.
"Akito," you say again, simply because you can. You place a hand on his shoulder, and he rolls back over, glaring at you with absolutely zero heat behind it.
You push yourself upward, just enough to lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, amused by how his face scrunches up. Cute, more than anything. "I love you," you tell him.
"I know," he says back. "Subtlety's not your thing."
You level an unamused glare of your own, and that at least gets him to ease up, a smirk growing on his face.
"But it took you seven years to notice—"
"—Okay, be quiet—"
"—even when your sister had to tell you—"
"—Seriously, enough. Geez. Your sister-in-law, by the way."
Ah. That's right, isn't it. Soon-to-be, anyway.
Akito presses his lips into a line, trying to hide the way the corners of his mouth try to twitch upward. He reaches a hand out, feeling for your hand and taking it in his as naturally as breathing.
"… Love you too," he says. The softness to his eyes is something that's been there all along, you realize, ever since the day you met him. "Touya."