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Shouyou is ten years-old when he witnesses live music for the first time. A pair of buskers, playing their hearts out under a bridge over a river leading into the inner city. He walks the route on his way home from school every day, him and okaa-san, but on a hot afternoon, at ten years-old, Shouyou can’t help but stare.
Two musicians, both women, one sat behind a drum set and the other swinging a bright pink electric guitar. Both have their hair down—the drummer’s is thick and short, chopped sharp at her chin and heavy bangs covering her eyes; the guitarist’s is long and dark, whipping around her face like choreography as she plays a solo, possessed, spinning and jumping and shouting, fingers a blur along a bright-pink fretboard.
The drummer has no problem keeping up. She seems to relish in it, in fact, grinning when the guitarist flies a little too close to her, and her drumsticks seem like an extension of her own limbs like she’s some kind of monster, some kind of genius, two extra extremities bending to her will, and between the two of them, they drown the sound of the river, the summer cicadas, the lingering city chatter, all the way out.
Ten year-old Shouyou glances at the open guitar case sitting in front of them. A handful of coins, a banknote, a six-pack of beer.
His mother notices him looking and asks, gentle, “Do you want to give them some money?”
Shouyou looks up at her, eyes wide. “I can?”
“Of course,” she says, smiling. “Here.”
His mother fishes out several coins from a worn purse. “Go on,” she encourages. “They’ll like it.”
At ten, Shouyou grasps the coins in his little fist so hard that they begin to warm up, clenched tough in the center of his palm. He wanders forwards, uncharacteristically shy, and drops them unceremoniously into the guitar case. The clink of yen against yen sends a thrill down his little spine.
From behind a dark, fringed curtain, the drummer glances down and meets his eyes. She grins, and when she speaks, her voice is low and throaty.
“Appreciate it, chibi-chan.”
Shouyou gapes, watching the guitarist’s fingers fly over the fretboard faster than he’s ever seen anything in his life.
Shouyou is ten, when he witnesses live music for the first time. It’s only uphill from there.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
The worst part about being in a band is the members.
“You’re late.”
“I know, Kei,” Shouyou huffs into the phone clasped precarious between ear and shoulder. He’s practically sprinting, as fast as one can sprint with a guitar strapped to his back and a hard-shell amp case dragging down his right arm.
Kei knows he’s hurrying. Kei knows that he’s carrying all this shit; he’s the one who made Shouyou bring it after all, carry all their stuff all the way, knowing that it would make him late.
“Maybe,” Shouyou hisses, sneakers slapping against concrete, “If you had helped me, we would all be there by now.”
“I had to help Tadashi with the drum set,” comes Kei’s monotonous reply. Shouyou, loudly, lets Kei know exactly what he thinks of his bullshit.
“Tadashi doesn’t need your help, idiot, he has the whole road crew at his beck and call.”
If I knew what being in a band actually meant, he thinks, directing all the misfortune in the world to his lazy, miserable, blond bassist, maybe I would have picked a different career path.
A lie. Shouyou is meant for nothing and no one but this.
“You lazy ass,” he says instead, “You know you have to use this, too, right?”
He shakes the amp in his hand as if Kei could, somehow, see through the phone and witness his slapstick anger. He doesn’t. In fact, all it does is send a sharp ache up through Shouyou’s right hand. The tightness of which he’s grasping the handle, knuckles clenched and white, is doing him no favors. It’s not his fault. Band equipment is heavy.
He sighs into the phone. “What floor are we on?” Getting at least something right today would be a quiet mercy.
“Don’t know,” comes Kei’s helpful, helpful answer.
Shouyou curses again. “Give the phone to someone else,” he threatens, “or so help me, Tsukishima Kei—”
A shuffling sound, a muffled yelp—Kei’s—and Shouyou feels the weight of the world lift off his shoulders as a chipper, high-pitched voice filters through the phone.
“Shouyou! We’re on fourth. Hurry up, Tobio wants to start!”
Shouyou sends a silent prayer to whatever god brought Yachi Hitoka and her perfect, heavenly voice into his life. He tells her so, tiredly.
“Thanks, beautiful. Be right there.”
Hitoka, bless her heart, only giggles. “Don’t let Tobio-kun hear you call me that.”
Grateful, Shouyou moves to hang up the phone from where it has started to slip from its precarious spot between his shoulder and ear, but not before the speaker betrays the shuffle of Hitoka turning her head, attention caught by a voice nearby.
“Don’t let me hear what?”
The grooves and ridges of Tobio’s voice come scratchy and filtered through the phone and an image of him pops uninvited into Shouyou’s head—Tobio, long-limbed and steady-handed, dark-haired and dark-eyed, fringe swept back with sweat and eyebrows knitted and determined, fingers a blur over the fretboard, pick held firmly between his teeth, that beautiful, perfect guitar posture. The rush that comes over Shouyou, suddenly, can’t be attributed to his tardiness, he knows, nor his frustration at Kei, nor his gratitude towards Hitoka, but Tobio. Just, Tobio.
Shouyou listens through the phone, feeling crazy and perverse as Tobio repeats his question, and even the resounding static is enough to make Shouyou’s breath hitch. He can feel his ears heating up as he stumbles over his feet.
“I’ll be right there,” he croaks, and scrambles to hang up the phone before he does something stupid, like blurt out I love you, I’m obsessed with you, I want you so fucking bad, I love you more than anything, more than music , even, and then have to explain on speakerphone who exactly that was all directed to, when all the band but one already knows all too well.
Hitoka laughs like summer, the last sound he catches before he ends the call, and he knows, like always, that it’s directed at him.
Maybe the worst part about being in a band isn’t the members, but falling in love with one of them instead.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
Shouyou psyches himself up as he hauls the guitar and amp up four flights of stairs, the same way he does every time he enters a room with Tobio in it. Lucky for him, it’s easy to put music first, seems like the natural order of things, even, especially when his lead guitarist barged into his life like a thunderstorm one day, crashing through his front door and changing his life, the way music always does, for the second time, with the most incredible audition piece Shouyou had ever heard in his life.
The band brought them together, after all. So, naturally, the band comes first. Shouyou has long made his peace with it.
The practice studio is easy to find, even if it’s the third one they’ve booked out this month. The voices echoing from behind its supposedly-soundproof walls are a dead giveaway that Shouyou’s insane, obsessed, sleep-deprived posse of incredible minds and talents that he calls his band is inside, waiting for him.
Like always, he feels a little thrill run through him, explosions. My band is waiting for me. My band.
Reaching out with his unweighted arm, Shouyou pushes the door open and drags himself and all his belongings clumsily across the threshold. Four voices speak in unison.
“Finally!” Hitoka and Tadashi, in cheery unison.
“Took you long enough,” Kei remarks, voice dull and bored, and Shouyou shoots a scowl in his general direction, an automatic response trained by the years of antagonism and petty brawls he’s learned to call a friendship.
“Hinata.” Tobio. Shouyou has to physically close his eyes to prevent the entire world from narrowing down to one person and one person only, like all the atoms and decibels in the room decided to shoot towards Tobio at the speed of light, tunnel-visioning faster than Shouyou can keep up.
“Kageyama.” He swallows. “I’m here.”
“Great!” Hitoka claps her hands, sending a wave of calm through the room with nothing but a perfectly-aimed smile. “Let’s get started, then.”
Shouyou nods, guitar already half-risen from its case, fingers deftly reaching for the tuning pegs. Kei, for all of his bitching and moaning, is already kneeling down next to him, his own guitar at the ready.
“Thanks for the amp,” he says, plugging his bass guitar into it. Shouyou nods back, knowing well enough that any acknowledgement at all comes from the bottom of Kei’s heart. He takes the cable from the case and unravels it, leading the line over to the outlet in the wall and inserting it smoothly.
Quickly, Shouyou plugs in his own guitar and finishes tuning it, easier with the sounds resonating through the amp into the room. Music always finds a way to fill the space.
Across the studio, Tadashi is getting bored waiting, evident from the steady pattern of his hi-hat cymbals as he taps his foot relentlessly against the pedal. His drumsticks, too, are sliding and batting against each other in his hands, as if they were chopsticks and Tadashi is getting ready to feast.
Which, Shouyou decides, is more true than anything else. Tadashi devours his sets. Always in movement, always in motion. Always making music, making noise, Yamaguchi Tadashi—green-haired, narrow-eyed, more metal in his body than any of them can count—is an instrument all by himself.
He’s irreplaceable, Shouyou thinks to himself, plucking strings and turning pegs to the background music of Tadashi’s one-man symphony. We wouldn’t be a band without him.
A shadow looms over him, suddenly, and Shouyou fumbles with his guitar. He looks up to find Tobio peering bemusedly down at him.
From this angle, Tobio’s hair falls forward in clumps, shielding his eyes. Shouyou’s hands shake with the urge to do something insane, like reach up and push Tobio’s fringe off of his forehead. Something like that.
“Hinata.”
A shaky “Hm?” is all he can manage.
Tobio points downwards. “I need to plug in my guitar.”
“Oh.” Shouyou scrambles backwards to give him room, then, on second thought, thrusts his hand out.
“Give it here.”
Tobio pauses, cable halfway to the amp. Slowly, and clearly a little confused, he reaches out and places it in Shouyou’s outstretched palm. Shouyou doesn’t notice their hands brush.
Swallowing, Shouyou leans over and plugs in the cable himself. The guitar strapped to Tobio’s front gives a little hum, feedback, life drawing back into it, and Tobio lets out a pleased little hum that vibrates in Shouyou’s head stronger than guitar static.
Back in place beside Tadashi, over Tobio’s shoulder, Kei raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t see you plugging in my guitar,” he comments, and Shouyou sees Hitoka slap him on the arm as quickly as Tadashi pokes him in the side with the tip of a deadly drumstick. He feels his face flush, regardless.
Tobio is lost in his own world from the second his guitar fell into his hands, alive. He looks down at his fretboard like each groove and string holds all the secrets of all the world. The tenderness with which he runs his fingers over the metal and mahogany makes Shouyou want to die.
They all have callouses, fingertips readied and hardened, fed by guitar strings made of nylon, steel, nickel, brass, bronze. Proof of love, proof of work, and return.
Shouyou thinks he would die if Tobio ever, for any reason, laid his own hands on him with the same tenderness. He swallows, in face of everything, in spite of it, and turns back to his band. His band, and his life.
To their credit, the rest have long averted their eyes. Whatever this is, whatever thing it is that sits heavy and wanting in the center of Shouyou’s chest, is his. Not the band’s. He can’t let them get mixed up, not when they’re finally on a good streak, the one they’ve been waiting for since they started.
He won’t let them down. Not like this.
Shouyou clears his throat. “Okay, guys. Go time.”
Hitoka perks up, brown eyes large and eager. “Are we ready?” She claps her hands. “Oh, great!”
Hurrying to the center of the room, she takes the microphone from the stand and taps it a couple times on the head, beaming when feedback echoes around the room, the loveliest sound.
Her voice sweetens, teasing, lovely. “Count us in, Tadashi?”
Tadashi is only too happy to oblige. Seated, his hands tighten around his drumsticks as he starts tapping them together, meticulous and learned, grin spreading wide and animalistic over his face.
“Ichi, ni, san, yon!”
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
Guitar, Shouyou knows, the first thing he ever learned about it, is love. Guitar is love.
Guitar is love, the way his mother gifted him one for his eleventh birthday after he couldn’t get those street buskers out of his head, all those months ago. It was small, child-sized, but beautiful still, the most wonderful thing Shouyou had ever seen.
He had pored over it for hours, touching and feeling instead of playing, like he was meant to. Dragging his palms over cool, smooth wood, tracing the woodstain with curious hands. Brushing his fingertips over the strings, the fretboard, seeing how each and every piece responded to his touch. Like it was too delicate, too important somehow, to rush.
He’s never been one to take his time. Shouyou has always been the type to dive right into it.
He was always going to play in a band. There’s never been any question about it. Still, he can’t help but think that his eleven year-old hesitance was a premonition, some vague preamble of what was to come. That, despite guitar, despite music and how he loved it, there would be something coming, something he wouldn’t sense, wouldn’t even realize until it hit him, directly on course, and strike him right off his feet.
But, what can one do, with a sense of warning providing no clues but itself? The answer, for Shouyou, at least, was to carry on. Because, despite it, despite it all, guitar was love. Guitar is love. And, honestly, that’s all he’s ever needed. To face front, and face the music.
Because, guitar is love. Guitar is love, the way that Yamaguchi Tadashi, pre-piercings Tadashi, not yet green-haired or decorated with titanium but had played drums all his life, fell into Shouyou’s orbit one afternoon, catching him in the school music room with an electric guitar and inviting him to come over, to play some tunes, one Thursday afternoon after school.
“I’m a great drummer,” he had said, smiling, thumbing his right ear as if he could habitually predict all the metal that would be threaded through it one day. Shouyou must have seen it coming, even then.
“One of my best friends can play bass, too.”
Yamaguchi Tadashi’s so-called best friend was an asshole, and a poor excuse of a friend at that, but an excellent bass player. Shouyou had felt weak, almost, in face of the new, like his fingers had finally figured out what notes to aim for, tight and at the ready.
Guitar is love in the way that Shouyou found love, in the synergy between drum and bass. Guitar is love in the way that Tadashi and Kei seemed like they had been playing together for years and years, the two of them so in tune and in-sync that they reminded Shouyou of the two buskers that started it all, reminded him with a sort of sweet ache that he had never been able to get away from, haunting him always. Forcing him to remember exactly what it felt like. All the want.
And, guitar is love in the way that Shouyou would sing, before three became four became five, and he enjoyed it, singing, but he wasn’t a vocalist, not at heart. Shouyou was a guitarist, and he would be until it killed him. But, for now, in their part-time three-person high-school band, his voice would do.
Until the day that Kei, who Shouyou still called Tsukishima back then, the name ugly and unkind in his mouth, told him briskly that he sounded like shit and he knew someone who could actually sing, if they were interested.
“Hinata-kun.”
“What?”
“You sound like shit.” Without even waiting for Shouyou to finish spluttering, he had continued. “I know someone who can actually sing, if you’re interested.”
Shouyou had frowned. “Who?”
Behind them, Tadashi had frowned harder. “Who?” Then, eyes widening, “Oh, my God.”
Kei and Tadashi both ignored him in favor of holding long, incredulous eye contact.
“Tsukki, you’re a genius.”
“I know,” Kei had snapped impatiently. “Are you calling her, or am I?”
“Will someone answer me? Who the fuck is—”
Guitar is love, the way Yachi Hitoka danced in through Tadashi’s front door like she belonged, which she did, and hugged him and Kei like she had known them all her life, which she had, and then hugged Shouyou, too, despite never meeting him before.
“I heard you’re looking for a singer,” she giggled, and her eyes disappeared with the force of her smile. “I can sing, Hinata-kun.”
“She’s not lying,” Tadashi had gushed, and she certainly was not.
Hitoka made the band something else, something that it couldn’t have been without her voice, her range, her demeanor. She softened their edges, and toughened them right back up again. She fronted the band, owned it, spoke for them when they couldn’t speak, sang for them, gave their instruments meaning, gave them their voice. The fan-favorite, before they had fans, and afterwards, too. The band’s favorite, from before there was even a band. Their vocalist, and the band’s love, Yachi Hitoka.
“How did you even find her?” Shouyou had asked, incredulous, and Tadashi had grinned.
“We’re best friends,” he said, nodding to Hitoka, then Kei. She grinned with equal fervor.
“We bleach our hair together!” She exclaimed, pointing to her own blonde hair, then to Kei’s freshly dyed roots, as if it were the most important facet to their friendship. Which it very well could have been. Lighthouses, the two of them.
She leaned into Shouyou then, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tadashi says he’ll let us do his, soon. I’m thinking green.”
She turned to Shouyou, then, something thoughtful painting her face. “How about you?”
“Me?” Shouyou spluttered, still overwhelmed by the fact that they had a vocalist. A real-life vocalist, for their real-life band.
“You,” Yachi repeated, nodding. She scrunched her face up in thought. “I’m thinking, orange?”
A bark of a laugh from across the room. Kei, along with his signature sneer: “Definitely orange.”
And then, there they were. A proper band, the four of them, until Kageyama Tobio, scowl and guitar at the ready, came barrelling headfirst into their lives.
And, personally, Shouyou would say that he has never been the same.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
Easily, the worst part about being in a band is the members.
“You’re late.”
Shouyou holds clenched fists by his sides, so he won’t do something stupid like turn around and swing at Kei with them.
“I’m not,” he breathes, trying to maintain composure. “I’m keeping the rhythm.”
Kei’s eyebrows are raised. “You have to come in faster,” he says slowly, like Shouyou’s an idiot. Which he’s not.
“You have to pick up the second verse right away, or you fuck up Hitoka’s timing, too.”
Hitoka raises her eyebrows as well, then holds up both her hands in front of her, one palm open and the other still curled around the microphone, as if to say, Don’t bring me into this.
“I’m telling you—” Shouyou is really considering just swinging at him and hoping for the best. “It’s not me. I’m on time.”
“Who is it then?” Kei snaps, impatient, “Because it sure as hell isn’t me.”
Hitoka, perfect angel vocalist that she is, is free from blame, like always. Sensing a fight, she skirts backwards from the epicenter. She’s long learned to just let things play out. The fighting tension never seems to go away, especially from bandmates who have known each other since high school. Hitoka has long learned to cover her own bases.
It’s good for them, ultimately. Helps them work out their troubles, air out grievances. Catharsis, of sorts.
It certainly doesn’t feel that way now. Shouyou bristles, bending his guitar pick between his fingers and feeling the nylon flex, the give familiar and predictable.
“I said, asshole,” he repeats slowly, “that it’s not me.”
Tobio looks up from his guitar where he’s adjusting its tuning pegs, glancing silently between him and Kei but face remaining otherwise expressionless.
“Not me,” he says simply, and goes right back to tuning his instrument as if they wouldn’t question him. Which they wouldn’t. Tobio doesn’t fuck up. It’s not him. Obviously.
Kei swivels back to Shouyou, a snake after its prey. “Well, then it has to be—”
“Tsukishima, don’t you start—”
“Sorry.” Tadashi raises a sheepish drumstick from behind his drum set, effectively cutting the both of them off. “It was me. Sorry. Got carried away.”
To the side, Hitoka lets out a little huff, a poor concealment of amusement. Tobio’s eyes flicker to Tadashi too, unsurprised, as if he knew. Which, he probably did. Tobio and Tadashi have ways with their instruments different to the rest of them, like they operate on some kind of musical wavelength that no one else can hear but they’re kind enough to play out loud anyway, so the rest get the opportunity to join in.
“Sorry,” Tadashi repeats, then shrugs. “Can we get back to practice, now?”
Kei’s shoulders slump as he lets out a heavy breath. “Yeah. Sorry.” Then, like an afterthought: “Don’t do that again. I get confused.”
Tadashi only shrugs. “Sorry, Tsukki.”
He rolls his shoulders back, nonchalant, but they can all hear is his genuineness. Kei glances over at him once more, seated and ready behind his drums, and nods, positioning his own bass at the ready.
“What?” Shouyou’s mouth drops open. “That’s it?”
Kei glares. “You heard him. Back to practice.”
“You asshole!” Shouyou explodes. The pick nearly snaps in his fingers. “Can you stop playing fucking favorites? Can we just be bandmates, for once—”
From across the room, Hitoka lets out a quiet sigh.
“You’re one to talk,” Kei snaps back, equally fed up. He steps forward quickly, a movement jerky and erratic enough to make Shouyou want to back up defensively, a cornered animal.
“Playing favorites,” Kei spits. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Hinata, because I’ve had it up to here with your—”
For a moment, Shouyou fucking hates him. Kei only calls him Hinata when he wants it to hurt.
“Kei,” Hitoka says quickly, stepping forward to prevent some imminent disaster, but Tobio, shockingly, beats her to it.
“Both of you are being stupid,” he says flatly, eyes darting from Shouyou, to Kei, then back again.
Shouyou can do nothing but gape. He can count on one hand the number of times Tobio has interfered whenever he and Kei, or, God forbid, he and Tadashi, have a disagreement that turns into a fight that turns into the two or more of them, duking it out with instruments like weapons and passions exceeding their little experience and relative success.
Of course, Tobio gets into tiffs of his own, the count long and arduous, which is probably why he knows how to stay out of it, when it’s not his turn. His duels with Kei, or more frequently, with Tadashi, are vicious enough as it is. Credit where it’s due, he knows when to back up. Not now, though, apparently.
Predictably, Kei rounds on Tobio, this time. “Kageyama, you can just stay out of it—”
“No.” Tobio shrugs, raising his hands from his guitar and crossing them over his chest. He meets Kei’s eyes squarely.
“We’re a band. How can we be a band if we don’t play like one?”
Inching closer, Hitoka beams, visibly relieved. At not having to play mediator for once, but also, poorly-concealed delight at Tobio, playing his part in their team dynamics.
To his credit, Tobio has put in arduous efforts to getting to know each of them, from the start. Learning them, musically, instrumentally, understanding each of them like musicians so he can treat them like it. In all honesty, maybe Tobio is the one who takes the band the most seriously, apart from Shouyou himself.
It’s part of his insane, ritualistic passion, the flairs he tacks onto the end of everything he does, everything in the world, each and every thought and movement dedicated to or justified by his love for guitar, for music, for playing in a band and improving at it, all the way until he hits the ceiling and there’s nothing left for him to conquer.
He’s crazy. Obsessive. Shouyou is head over fucking heels for it.
“Just—” Tobio knits his eyebrows together as he continues. Shouyou tries and fails to not be endeared.
“Tsukishima-kun. Focus on yourself. You’re percussion, too, you know, it shouldn’t mess you up enough to the point where you have to pause the set.”
He turns to Tadashi. “Slow down. You’re trying to fit too much into too little. You can go a little harder at the end if you want, Tadashi-kun, but not here.”
And, there he goes, Tadashi-kun, and Shouyou feels the tiny twist in his stomach rear its head. For all their team-building, Tadashi is the only one that Tobio calls by their given name . And Hitoka, sometimes, but, she, like most things about them, is their weak point, their special case. With Tadashi though, it’s different. Tobio has always been different with Tadashi.
Something to do with their animalism, maybe, the odd, unpredictable connector between two characters whose personalities would otherwise never match up. They understand each other in this sick, fundamental way, one that makes Shouyou green with wanting and so, so in awe, of their lengths of music and communication, and the way their primal, animal understanding of pitch and key and rhythm is able to transcend the need for words, or sense, or reason.
Tobio with his guitar is like Tadashi with his drums. For that reason and that reason alone, the two of them are a little bit of everything to each other. Walking mirrors, parallels, justifying and emboldening the other to keep going, keep moving forward, reach new heights, I’ve got you.
For Shouyou, it’s a trek, and a mission. When Tobio calls him Shouyou-kun, or God forbid, Shouyou, like he does with Tadashi, he will have earned it. He can’t fucking wait.
“Hinata.” Tobio turns to him, last. He shoots Shouyou a look, indecipherable. “He’s a little right. Come in faster.”
Kei scoffs from behind them, but otherwise says nothing. Shouyou feels a little flicker of annoyance pass through him.
“I’m trying,” he huffs, forcing himself to cool off, and Hitoka steps in, finally.
“Let’s take a break,” she says brightly, and Tadashi stands abruptly from his drum set like he was waiting for it, drumsticks rolling off the floor tom in his ardor.
“Finally,” he breathes, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m starving. We can go again after a snack, ‘kay?”
“Fine,” Kei relents, at the mercy of his two best friends. He shoots a glower at Shouyou and Tobio both, but goes limp as Tadashi hooks an arm around his on his way towards the door. Tadashi and Hitoka both will no doubt wrangle an apology out of him by the time they converge again for practice, the way most of these things go, and Shouyou and Tobio will have to take the olive branch as to not look like assholes, and for the livelihood of the band, and everything will continue like normal. Perfectly, and like normal.
Shouyou wouldn’t have it any other way.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
The diner they pick is ratty, rundown, just short of being an izakaya, a couple blocks down the street from the studio. Open twenty-four hours a day, on holidays, through snowstorms, during monsoons, Sakanoshita’s has been there for them through everything. The owner, Ukai, swears up and down that it’s not a speakeasy, but Tadashi swears up and down, and with much more voracity, that the five of them have been coming here for years, and not once has Ukai ever ID-ed them, before or after they turned twenty, legal age be damned.
Ukai has little to say to that. They’re probably his best customers, after all.
Either way, they’re not here for drinks today. Kei holds the door open as the rest of them slip under his arm, Shouyou not without a small glower equally returned, and the bell chimes their entry in its signature, off-key ring.
Tadashi leads them to their usual table, a small leather-clad window booth that they’ve been squeezing into since they were teenagers; him and Hitoka on one side, Shouyou and Tobio on the other, and Kei relegated to the stool at the end.
“Home sweet home,” Tadashi says, grinning as he waves Hitoka forward into the booth and offers her a hand, as faux-gentlemanly as he can manage.
Shouyou gives him a small laugh, laughs harder when Hitoka bats his hand away and slips past him to slide in, tucked in against the window just as she likes. She uses her knee to push at Tadashi’s leg once he squeezes in next to her, forcing him out of his slack, spread position so she can sit comfortably. Kei, taking the end, has none of Tadashi’s obstinance, and sits with his legs closed primly together. There’s a reason why he’s Hitoka’s favorite.
Shouyou and Tobio take their seats on the opposite side, that strange, quiet tension still floating between them. All of them ignore the menus splayed open on the table in front of them—it’s been enough years that they all know what they want. Soon enough, a server stops in front of their table.
“Irrashaimase,” the server says, someone they don’t recognize, young and skittish, and they respond with various degrees of thanks, automatic. They don’t get further before someone broad-shouldered appears in front of them.
“Get another table, Narita-kun, I’ll take this one,” Ukai says with his usual gruffness, and the five of them brighten on cue.
He looks the same as he always does, apron scuffed and wrapped around his waist, eyes narrowed and tired. A pack of cigarettes sticks out of his back pocket, the expensive kind he’s liked all the time they’ve known him, and when they’ve been lucky enough to bum a couple off of him during his breaks in the alley behind the diner. He’s never been too interested in their band business, though. They’ll get him to come to a show, one day.
“Sensei!” They all chitter, but Ukai doesn’t let them get far, barely lets them chirp out their respective hellos before he lets out a heavy sigh and eyes them one at a time, vehemently unimpressed. Running a diner is busy work, as they’ve found out.
“Flat white for Hinata-kun, onigiri for Kageyama-kun, and fries to share, I know. Eat and get the hell out of my establishment, yeah?”
“Hinata’s been taking his coffee black lately, actually,” Tobio butts in, quiet, and Ukai grunts his assent. Shouyou freezes, stuck glancing at Tobio out of the corner of his eye and pretending not to.
“And I told you not to call me that,” Ukai announces in a final, gruff word as he disappears from their table.
“Well,” Kei says into the short silence. “Sensei, full of sunshine, as usual.”
Hitoka does nothing but sigh. “I love him,” she says, dreamy.
Tadashi laughs at her, shoving her hard, and she shouts, catapulted into the window. Kei scoffs, clearly disapproving, and the two of them scoff right back at him, quick as lightning.
Shouyou watches their bickering with fond eyes, thoughts elsewhere. He thinks he could live the rest of his life listening to a loop of the word coffee in Tobio’s mouth, sweet and dark and honest, the same way he hears all of Tobio’s words in his head, anyway, on loop, remixed, pressed into vinyls, burned onto CDs.
He knows how Tobio takes his coffee. Tobio doesn’t drink coffee, first of all, but he drinks tea, and his favorite is oolong, and he likes it without milk, plenty of sugar, and warm but not scalding. Shouyou knows everything about Tobio, so it only makes sense that Tobio knows how he takes his coffee in return.
But, it doesn’t make sense. Shouyou knows everything about Tobio because he’s in love with him. Tobio has no right to know how Shouyou takes his coffee. Tobio has no right to let Shouyou love him like this.
They’ve spent so many afternoons at the diner that time has begun to pass differently here, some liminal fourth-dimension in which they simply sit and exist, invisible to anything and everything but each other. Narita brings them their order. Shouyou sips his coffee and watches as Hitoka and Tadashi take turns competing over who can feed the longest fries they can find into Kei’s mouth before he chokes on them and dies.
Beside him, Tobio drums up a storm on the tabletop, fingers tapping out a melody only he can hear. He’s always like this, stoic and silent and thoughtful. Tobio tends to think in lyrics and sheet music where the rest of them function in images, words. Tobio hears less of the conversation and more its key changes, voice, pitch and tone. A gift. A superpower.
Though a little closer to human, the other four share no less of Tobio’s inhuman urge, need, drive. If given the choice they would live in their practice studio. If given the choice they would live off of hi-hats and barre chords.
If given the choice, the five of them would live off of their music, and live forever.
The bell above the front door gives a second little jingle as they leave.
“Ja ne, sensei!” They call in unison, door swinging shut behind them. Quick in and quick out, as they always are. They still have the studio booked for hours, after all.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
“Ichi, ni, san yon!”
They played their first show together in high school. Something crude, something messy in the back of some bar or speakeasy, opening for a band coming on at ten o’clock that night. The venue had no business letting them in let alone letting them play, five kids barely eighteen and looking far younger, but they didn’t care. They had never cared. Anywhere with a rowdy crowd and a free dinner was good enough for them.
Still, it feels like Shouyou’s first show every time he plays, when it comes to his band members. They have a way of shaking things up.
They have a kind of irreplaceable, iron confidence, with their drummer backing them up from behind. He’s impossible to miss. Impossible to forget. Impossible to ignore, Tadashi and all that he is.
Tadashi and his drums. Tadashi plays like he’s marking territory, wild and fearless, drumstick in each hand making his wingspan sixteen-inches longer, silhouette vast and looming against a curtained backdrop. Drumsticks in hand, he makes it feel like there’s nothing he can’t reach, nowhere he can’t go, drum set sat before him like awful, merciless artillery. A general, commanding troops built from snares and cymbals and pedals.
He’s a genius, Shouyou thinks, watching him. He’s a monster.
But, if Tadashi on the drums is a monster, then, Shouyou thinks, turning to his lead guitarist, Tobio is a different kind of beast.
There is no one stupid enough to profess that they take music more seriously than Kageyama Tobio. But, there is also no one observant enough to realize how much he does. No one, except the four of them.
Tobio is less a musician and more a creature of habit, the way he stakes claims, territory, sounds and strings and strums. He looks awkward and unruly in any environment but this one, shiny guitar strapped to his front and plastic pick spinning tricks around his fingers. He’s always been difficult to rouse because he’s always dreaming through a melody. Always quiet because he’s mentally listening to his next big hit. Slow to respond because he has to hear you through the music, first. And everything else they like to say about Kageyama Tobio.
Their lead guitarist. Their dark, shining star.
Tobio plays little riffs between songs, during conversations, like he’s allergic to putting the guitar down. It never leaves his hands, not during breaktime, not during discussions; when they break for water and gulp it down, sweat lining foreheads and plastic bottles clutched between fists like a lifeline, Tobio manages to balance one in each hand, fingers white with how tightly his hand has molded to the fretboard. Shouyou thinks that his skeleton must have started to curve around it, some time after his body realized that the guitar had become a part of him, and now Tobio’s little finger twitches in its spare time, trying to curl around something that isn’t there, guitar a phantom limb.
It’s a universal feeling. There’s just something electric about it. The music.
Sometimes, they play so hard that the studio shakes. They used to get complaints, from whichever tenants were renting out the spaces above or below, complaints they tried their best to adhere to but failed, failed miserably, to the point at which the tenants just moved right out.
Now, they play as hard as they like, and then harder still.
Kei and Tadashi have figured out a little routine, to keep things in place onstage. It makes Shouyou’s heart burst, to the point where he tries his best not to look, when he notices it happening.
The three guitar players, Kei, Tobio, and himself, have one large amp that they hook each of their instruments into, old and trusty, their sixth bandmate, sat steady and true beside Tadashi’s drumset at every show they’ve ever played, singing its own little heart out.
Tadashi has this habit of playing so hard that his drum set shakes, trembles onstage and takes little leaps, jumps and hops like it's doing its best to mimic the music Tadashi makes off of its back. So, to combat it and keep their drummer in place, they set the amp up next to Tadashi’s bass drum, every show before they play, hike it right up in front, a defensive shield against the mercilessness at which Tadashi kicks his heel into the pedal.
Kei stands the closest to Tadashi during shows. Some unspoken rule, something they’ve never said aloud nor even realized is a truth, but it’s always been the same way. Kei stands closest to Tadashi’s drum set while they play, so when the bass drum starts to inch forward, victim to Tadashi’s fiending, Kei will notice and take several steps back, using the ball of his foot and digging it into the head of their amp, to kick it all the way back.
Shouyou has glanced back at them out of the corner of his eye more times than he can count on both hands, and probably both of Hitoka’s hands, too, and seen Kei with his heel in the amp, still head-down playing some pretentious bassline that he insisted on keeping in the song, and Tadashi, wide-eyed and grinning as he fits his foot neatly back onto the pedal that Kei has sent his way, drowning out the whole room with his drums.
There’s just something symbiotic about it. About them.
Hitoka was the person who taught Shouyou how to sing, after they begged her to be in the band and gave her a voice. They gave each other voices. Shouyou has never been more grateful to anyone in his entire life. The way Hitoka’s vibrato cuts off as she whoops and dives offstage to crowdsurf may just be the most beautiful thing Shouyou has ever heard in his entire life.
He’s her right-hand-man, the most serious of honors anyone could hold. They rule the stage together. Hitoka is the greatest singer and frontwoman any band could ever hope to have. No one sings like her. No one fronts like her.
It’s hard, to front a band. Hitoka has to do most of the talking, the negotiating, the proving-your-worth to bar owners and venue managers who have never heard your name before. She never loses patience, never bites back, never gives them anything bad to flag. Hitoka knows better. Hitoka saves all of that for the stage.
And, on stage, Shouyou knows better than to look at Tobio. He’s like a little galaxy all on his own, sat right at the epicenter, Shouyou in the path of the orbit drawing the rest of them in. Shouyou spends his life dodging comets and asteroids, a little moon turning his face outwards towards the sun. He spends his life with craters growing over scarred from how often Tobio makes him feel all punched out in the chest.
Shouyou doesn’t need to look at Tobio onstage, anyway. They’ve always gotten along, more so than they haven’t at least, but their synergy has always been strongest onstage. Shouyou doesn’t think that they’ve ever breathed an atom of different air for a single second, while they’ve been on stage. Shouyou doesn’t need to look at him to know that.
He doesn’t dare, anyway. He has an inkling that he’d snap away all six steel strings on his guitar with how badly the want would consume him, onstage under the lights, Tobio’s hands on his fretboard like it was the last thing on earth. Shouyou doesn’t dare.
He looks back after the show, though, a small reprieve he allows himself from the aching that is their whole set, their whole life, and finds Tobio’s eyes already trained on him. Immediately, Shouyou feels like he’s survived a typhoon, dark and rocking, and he’s been awarded the luxury of peering up into the rising sun after a long, rainy day.
“You sounded good,” Kei starts, backstage after their set, and both Hitoka and Shouyou make audible twin gulps, sitting up straighter. Praise from Tsukishima Kei is never good. Only his silence is a genuine message of approval.
“But I think you guys need to go on vocal rest.” At least he sounds apologetic about it. “At least for a little. Sorry, Shouyou.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tadashi adds, and great, now Tadashi agrees, too. “We’ve been playing so many sets lately.”
Tadashi runs a hand through his fringe, dislodging strands of green gelled messily and haphazardly together. Sensing Hitoka’s annoyance, he palms the top of her head like one would a basketball and gives her little scritches, fingertips digging into her scalp as if she were a small dog. It works, as it always does, but her frustration is still palpable.
Shouyou catches sight of the calluses lining Tadashi’s hand, firm streaks of skin verifying him for years of hard work, hard-earned proof of hands curled around drumsticks until the wood cut into him, until his hands morphed and grew armor like protection. Shouyou knows what it’s like. His own hands have grown calluses of their own, fingertips tough and strong, ready to pull and pluck strings until his heart gives up. He wishes that his vocal cords would get the memo.
Instruments reward their players. A positive feedback loop, where music makes the body makes the music. Primed and salient, ready to play their hearts out with new weapons and shields equipped each time. All instruments, at least, but the voice.
Vocal cords are just a bit too human to abide by the same rules. Vocal cords need things like rest and water and Tadashi’s citrus yuzu concentrate.
Shouyou hates vocal rest. Almost hates it more than not singing at all. Still, if Kei is saying that they need a break, then they need one. Neither of them are brave enough to defy him on this, anyway.
At least there’ll be Tadashi’s sweet tea, Shouyou thinks, miserable.
“Whatever you say,” he says, giving Kei a flat salute. Hitoka bumps his shoulder with her own, sensing his disappointment much similar to her own.
“Don’t miss our voices too much,” she says, bright and cheery in a way that lights Shouyou up.
“Especially you.” She sends a wink to Tobio across the room as if to accentuate her point, and he throws a spare pick her way, small smile spreading over his face.
“Would never miss your voice,” Tobio teases right back, voice low and tired from the set but eyes curved with happiness. He’s always a little grumpy after a show ends, but never too cranky for Hitoka. No one is.
Hitoka pouts, playing right into it. “Only mine?” She asks, dropping a casual hand onto Shouyou’s knee. “Not Shouyou’s?”
Shouyou wants to bury his head in his hands. He shoots her a look saying just that, and the glance she exchanges with him tells him that she knows, and she doesn’t give a single smug fuck.
“Mm,” is all Tobio says. Then, thoughtful: “Hinata has a nice voice.”
Shouyou can do little but gape as Tobio disappears swiftly into the bathroom backstage, seemingly unaffected by and uncaring of how any little thing he says makes Shouyou’s jaw drop to the ground faster than the words can leave his mouth.
“Oh, man,” Tadashi breathes, watching Tobio’s back disappear. Hitoka giggles, and Kei swats at the back of her head.
Shouyou really does put his head in his hands then, and groans out loud.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
Vocal rest is always a touchy area for the band. They can’t really help it, even though they all know it’s necessary. Tadashi and Kei get more prickly, more restless without their little blonde mood-maker hanging the sun in the sky, and Tobio gets defensive, too, with less people to shield him from the brunt of attention, and he tends to lash out, get aggressive or sulky, unhappy with the new division of authority. Tobio is an autonomous person, but less so a talkative one.
Shouyou has taken to scribbling down his thoughts to communicate in lieu of words, lines and lines of graphite in the notebook he usually reserves for jotting down lyrics when inspiration strikes. Whatever it takes, or whatever.
Anyway, they’re able to settle, somewhat. Rehearsal doesn’t change much, except Hitoka either sits to the side to watch them or scroll on her phone, or isn’t there at all, taking advantage of her reprieve. Sometimes, Tadashi takes mercy on her boredom and lets her tap away at his drum set like a child. He’s taught her a funk pattern, most recently, and they’ve all enjoyed hearing the two of them chatter in the background during breaks.
The remaining four play as usual, and it’s helpful, it really is, when they can concentrate on their instrumentals, fine-tuning little areas in the background and memorizing timing more precisely. Rhythm is so easy on the guitar, especially when Shouyou doesn’t have to focus on singing, so he honestly does enjoy it, being able to zone out and let muscle memory take control.
Hitoka has chosen to keep them company, today. She paints her nails off to the side, and they communally pretend that the smell of acetone doesn’t put them off. She let them pick the color; Kei picked red.
Hitoka fiddles with her phone as she waits for her nails to dry. She gets their attention through a wave as she holds her phone up high for them all to see, screen displaying text in big, pink, bold letters.
U GUYS R DOING GREAT !!!♡
MWAH
Tadashi giggles like his pigtails have been pulled on a kindergarten playground. Kei grimaces like he’s in the fifth grade and has just discovered cooties. They both act like it’s the first time they’ve ever met Yachi Hitoka, like she’s not their best friend in the whole world and has been since before they had matching dyed hair with matching bleach stains in her bathroom.
Kei nods as soon as they finish the song. “Our timing is so much better,” he notes, happy, and Shouyou breathes a sigh of relief with as little voice as he can muster.
Tobio clearly agrees, playing a little jingle on his guitar like a silly ending flourish, and Tadashi laughs out loud with delight, joining in immediately.
Kei and Shouyou make eye contact and stifle little laughs. Their two frontrunners, more like firecrackers the way they feed off the other, are a positive feedback loop all on their own.
“Let’s take a break,” Kei says agreeably, opening his hands wide and stretching his fingers from where they curl around his fretboard. Tobio closes in on them like a shark.
“Don’t hyperextend,” he says, crossing the distance between them in several strides and grabbing Kei’s hand out of the air.
“I always tell you not to hyperextend your fingers.” Tobio frowns, trying to fold each of Kei’s knuckles inwards like he can control the joints. “You’ll cramp again.”
Kei scowls, snatching his hand back and interlocking it with the other as if he can hide them from Tobio’s vulture view. He hates getting reminded of his cramping, swears up and down that he has zero hyperextension in his fingers, absolutely none, even though they can all clearly see his joints do lanky, freakish things even outside of his guitar.
“I’ll be fine,” Kei insists, rolling his eyes, but he lets Tobio grab at them again, unroll each finger and squint like he’s trying to get them to reveal a deep secret.
It’s their game, the two of them, Kei and Tobio, their quests to posture, whoever can get the other to care more, knowing that both of them have already maxed their scales completely out. A funny sort of love. Their whole band is made up of funny sorts of love, but always uncomplicated. Except for Shouyou. Shouyou has yet to get the memo.
“Need to get you a brace or something,” Tobio mutters, unhappy, and Kei holds his hands up in front of Tobio’s face obnoxiously.
“I’m fine, King,” he drawls. Tobio swings at him in half-hearted jest, throwing up a middle finger.
“Can’t let my bassist wear down,” he says, grinning with his canines as Kei visibly scoffs, turning away from him.
Only the others can rile Tobio up like this, get him to joke and banter, stupid slapstick they swear they’d gotten over in high school. Shouyou used to be able to, used to tease and prod, but he lost the ability somewhere in between making Tobio his bandmate and starting to fall in love with him. Something about the sight of Tobio doesn’t let Shouyou crack jokes anymore. Everything about Tobio is one-hundred percent, supremely, incredibly, heart-achingly serious.
Shouyou looks at him and feels his heart crack but not shatter, held dutifully together by ideas of keeping priorities straight and band harmony and the music comes first, and other shitty, useless thoughts, things that feel so small in comparison to the way Tobio’s mouth shapes around the phrase my bassist, and Shouyou’s own mouth goes dry at the sheer want for Tobio to call him that, too.
He can nearly imagine it, soft in Tobio’s voice. Shouyou bites his tongue. He wants to throw up. From behind the drums, Tadashi is giving him a look.
Mercifully, Hitoka either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, making little grabby hands towards Tobio from her spot curled up in the corner of the practice studio, knees pulled up to her chest. Shouyou watches as Tobio shrugs and obliges, abandoning his petty fight with Kei to saunter over to her, sitting cross-legged in front of her obediently. She holds her hands out, palms-down, and Tobio copies her without a word.
Hitoka lets out a satisfied little hum, then makes a face when Tobio frowns at her, pointing at her throat with a sobriety that she clearly doesn’t share. Someone should let Tobio know that just because his lead singer is on vocal rest doesn’t mean that he can’t talk either.
It’s part of his charm, Shouyou reasons, the mimicking. Tobio just gets really into things. Gets lost in them.
Hitoka uncaps her nail polish, acetone filling the room for the second time today, and starts painting Tobio’s nails, tongue stuck between her teeth and brow furrowed in concentration as she paints neat little brushstrokes of red over Tobio’s neatly filed nails. Tobio is a little obsessive over his nails, so he can fingerpick better. Tobio is a little obsessive over everything. He sits, though, obedient as ever, as Hitoka dresses him up.
Shouyou watches in a daze, as if peering into a diorama, at a pair of mimes. Tobio can give his full attention without blinking. Knows how to turn his brain off, on, whatever he needs it to do. He falls so easily into things. The only thing Shouyou’s brain knows how to fall into is Tobio.
Across the studio, Tadashi lets out a low hum and calls out for him.
“Shou-kun? Come here.”
Tadashi and Kei are sitting cross-legged side-by-side, Kei’s phone face-up on the floor with Tadahi’s old white earphones plugged into them. The two of them hold an earpiece each, but Kei unplugs them from the phone entirely when Shouyou drops down next to them so they can listen together. He recognizes the track they just practiced before the opening bars can even finish. He doesn’t hear whatever Tadashi wants him to, though.
“It’s around here,” Tadashi says, rewinding the recording and smudging Kei’s screen, ignoring Kei’s little noise of annoyance.
Shouyou frowns, too. Don’t hear it, he scribbles into his notebook, and both Kei and Tadashi crane their necks to squint down at his handwriting.
“No, look, listen.”
Tadashi rewinds the same part and Shouyou concentrates, hearing the exact same thing he heard just a second ago, which to say is, absolutely nothing.
He glances up at Tadashi with wide eyes as if to say, What?
Tadashi only peers bemusedly back at him, and so Shouyou looks to Kei instead, who only grimaces and shrugs as if to say, Don’t fucking ask me.
If someone other than Tadashi would talk, it would make his life a whole lot easier. Shouyou scribbles a big question mark in his notebook instead. Tadashi sighs.
“Someone is fucking up here. All I know is that it isn’t me, because I don’t fuck up, and it isn’t Hitoka, because she isn’t fucking in this.”
Shouyou can’t hear shit, and looks to Kei to double-check, who only shrugs at him again as if to say, again, Do not fucking ask me.
These idiots. Someone needs to tell them that just because he and Hitoka are on vocal rest doesn’t mean they all have to shut up too. He resists the urge to sigh; it would only piss Kei off. At a loss of what else to do, Shouyou circles his question mark a couple times, and looks back to Tadashi.
Tadashi blinks, and to his credit, little frustration bleeds into his voice when he says, slowly, “Listen. Here.” He rewinds it again. “You can hear me coming in, then—nothing.”
Shouyou tries his best. The shoddy phone picks up the split second of silence between the end of the bridge and the beginning of the last chorus, where Tadashi’s kickdrum comes through loud and clear. The three of them are meant to come in here in unison, the three guitars.
Shouyou blinks, and the guitars come in immediately. He looks up at Tadashi, who only looks back at him expectantly. He stifles a sigh again, and circles his question mark a couple more times for good measure. The paper is starting to crease. It’s hard to deal with their other resident genius sometimes, too.
Tadashi scowls, though not meanly. “One of you is late.” He pokes a finger into Kei’s chest who swats it away immediately.
“It’s not me,” Kei says, scowling back and Shouyou copies him immediately. Not me, he mouths, exaggerating the shapes of the words, and Tadashi scoffs at both of them.
“It’s Tobio, then,” he says, and Shouyou and Kei exchange a look. They’ve had too many arguments over timing this week, they won’t be able to survive another hit so soon. If Kei and Tobio, their two pickiest listeners, didn’t pick up on it, then Tadashi has chosen a shitty hill to die on.
Shouyou wants to sigh. He reaches for the pencil but Tadashi groans, slapping a hand over his eyes good-naturedly.
“Don’t write me anything else, Shou, anata, I’m sick of reading it. I’ll talk it through with Tobio-chan.”
Shouyou watches dumbly as Tadashi untangles his crossed legs—an age-old creature arising from slumber—and makes his way across the room to Tobio, who is still sat patiently with his hands out, letting Hitoka blow on his nails to dry the red polish. Shouyou and Kei sit side by side, patiently awaiting the storm.
“Tobio,” Tadashi starts, bending at the waist to peer down at Hitoka and Tobio, casting a shadow over them both. He brandishes Kei’s phone like a weapon.
“You’re late. In the encore.”
Tobio doesn’t miss a beat, still entirely focused on Hitoka and his nails. “Where,” he says, a statement more than a question.
“Before the final chorus, after the bridge.”
Tobio frowns. “Play it for me.”
Tadashi rewinds the recording, both Tobio and Hitoka lean in. Tadashi plays back the part he played for Shouyou, Tobio frowns.
“It’s fine,” he says, dull, and turns back to Hitoka, but Tadashi grabs his shoulder and forces him to refocus.
“You’re not listening to it.”
A beat. “I’m not late,” Tobio protests, throaty. Tadashi raises an eyebrow, and Tobio’s mouth purses.
“Listen again,” Tadashi says, pushing the phone towards him, but Tobio pushes him away immediately.
“I don’t need to hear it again,” he says, voice sulky, and Tadashi shrugs.
“Figure your shit out, then.”
His voice is airy, casual, but there’s something steely behind it. Sometimes, Shouyou gets a sense of what it must be like, to have a skill level so heads and shoulders above your bandmates. Tobio flaunts it, not on purpose but simply the result of him living and playing strong and obstinate, a trait that has ultimately bettered them and not driven them the other way. Tadashi though, Tadashi keeps his intelligence concealed, tucked into his sleeve and hidden away for a rainy day.
Tadashi likes to come down to earth most days, hide amongst the rest of them and pose as a non-casual hobbyist musician like it didn’t consume his whole soul the first time he held a drumstick. The rest of them know better than to be fooled, though. Tadashi is a beast at heart.
Tobio scowls. “No one can even tell.”
Tadashi raises his hands, glaring. “Me! Literally I can tell!”
“You’re different,” Tobio argues, shaking his head and clambering to his feet. His nails must be dry now, if Hitoka is letting him go.
“I’m really not,” Tadashi says, following him mercilessly. “Why haven’t you self-corrected by now?”
Shouyou hears Kei stifle a groan next to him and longs to do the same. Tobio and Tadashi tend to run circles around them, laps and laps and laps when they want to get all petty and technical, which is rarely. Still, it doesn’t make it any less frustrating, especially when Tobio falls for it, which is usually. When Tadashi’s itching for a fight, there’s no one in the world who can stop him.
A blue moon passes over Tohoku; Tobio doesn’t fall for it.
“Shut up,” he says quietly, over his shoulder at Tadashi, who has stopped pursuing. “I’ll fix it.”
Only half-settled, Tadashi swivels around on an axis, one-eighty, and points a finger at Shouyou who jumps, startled, and opens his notebook in defense, ready to write. Tadashi waves him off.
“You’re not in trouble,” he says, gentle in comparison to whatever lays brewing between him and Tobio. “Just don’t wait for him.”
Shouyou points to his question mark and Tadashi twitches. Kei snorts, a definite sign that Tadashi actually is getting angry now.
“Don’t wait for Tobio,” Tadashi says slowly. “You’re meant to come in at the same time but for some reason he’s lagging behind you. And that’s making you slow down too.”
He ruffles a hand in Shouyou’s hair, messy and doglike, like he’s expelling latent frustration. “Have more faith, Shou-kun. You’re good. You don’t need to wait.”
He shoots some vague, dark look at Tobio, sat on his own fiddling with his guitar and resolutely pretending to ignore them.
Shouyou doesn’t really know what else to do, so he gives Tadashi a thumbs up and a nervous grin. Tadashi seems to only barely allow it.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
Shouyou’s hand is going to die from cramping up. He hates vocal rest. He’s not going to be able to strum at this point, with all the writing he’s been doing. Vocal cords, he decides with a certain, decisive contempt, are unforgivable.
Tadashi is asleep on the sofa, long legs tipped over the armrest and swinging as he twitches and mumbles, tiny little micro-movements that are so, characteristically Tadashi. A creature in movement, in motion, and neither Kei or Shouyou are bothered, squeezed in next to Tadashi’s body on the other side of the couch, Kei forced to cradle Tadashi’s green head in his lap. He’s not happy about it, but Tadashi had insisted on a pillow. Their resident princess.
The loft is quiet tonight, rare but not unusual. Tobio is quiet as always, going through his scorebook on a stool next to the sofa and paying them no mind, the remaining three conversing in their own odd, stilted way. Hitoka tap-tap-taps away at her phone and shows the two of them her little typed messages, while Shouyou scribbles away in his notebook as the two of them peer over the book’s spine. Kei is visibly disgruntled at being the only speaking person, and Shouyou predicts that he’s going to make an excuse and go to bed soon, if only to rescue himself from the responsibility.
Still, they manage somewhat, quiet mumblings and hushed laughter, and Shouyou hands his notebook over to Kei who squints and mutters, “I can’t read this, Shouyou.”
Hitoka leans over to inspect and only shrugs in response, her way of saying, Neither can I.
To the side, Tobio stands abruptly, scorebook falling from his lap. “I’ve had enough,” he announces, and Hitoka stifles a laugh as he stalks towards them. Shouyou grabs his pen.
“This is ridiculous,” Tobio mutters, grabbing Shouyou’s wrist and forcefully preventing him from scribbling.
“Just stop. I know what you want.” His eyes glare down at Shouyou’s notebook like he wants to toss it across the room. In any other circumstance, Shouyou would laugh.
He tries to roll his eyes, tries to mouth something like, How could you possibly know what I want, but the words don’t come, not by mouth or pen, not when Tobio holds his wrist like that, firm and steady and sending shockwaves down Shouyou’s arm from their point of contact. He could die like this.
He doesn’t. He lifts his other hand, leaves it palm-up as if saying, What do I want, then?
Tobio seems to take it in stride. He scoffs, letting Shouyou’s hand fall back into his lap and strides over to their shared kitchen counter. Shouyou stands to see, but Tobio points a threatening finger behind him without looking.
“Sit your ass down.”
The kettle is half-full with water; Tobio presses his index finger squarely to the on button. Blue fridge light paints his face as he opens the door, and the streaks of navy he let Hitoka put in his hair a couple weeks ago flash, just for a second, lazy and haphazard along his fringe.
Shouyou has such an image, so strong and fond it must live in the back of his head, of Tobio, sat in front of a dingy sink, foil plaited neatly into his bangs and frown etched deeply into his face, reflected dimly into the smudged mirror of Hitoka and Kei’s bathroom.
The other bathroom is theirs, shared between Tadashi, Tobio, and Shouyou, but all the hair dyeing happens in the other, like some secret, unspoken rule. Maybe only because all the bleach is kept in there, Hitoka is a fiend about redoing her roots—Shouyou doesn’t mind so much, thinks that there’s something nice about the orange blending back to his natural brown.
The Tobio in Shouyou’s head sits still, lets Hitoka run her hands through dark hair and press blue fingerprints into his face to make him laugh. Shouyou watches like a voyeur, listens to Hitoka fret about color tone, listens to Tobio tell her he doesn’t mind; Hitoka drags an inky blue trail down his hairline in response. Blue rims the ceramic sink basin, messy, and neither of them care.
But, they are in the kitchen now, and Tadashi is asleep on their ratty patchwork sofa, the tear that Kei accidentally split on the third cushion pulling apart wider and wider, and Hitoka has her knees pulled up to her chest at Kei’s ankles, comfortable. At home.
Shouyou watches Tobio’s shoulders shift under his shirt as he shifts around the top shelf of the fridge, emerging triumphant with Tadashi’s jar of yuzu concentrate. Something inside his chest knocks around his ribcage, dislodged, clanging around the empty space looking for a place to land.
The kettle whistles its completion; Shouyou hardly hears it. Tobio’s guitarist fingers are curled around Shouyou’s favorite tea combo, and it feels like home.
Their loft is home. They took out the lease a year and a half ago when they decided to move in together, nearly half a year after they decided to take this whole band thing seriously. A three-bedroom two-bathroom, an open kitchen that was more of a kitchen-and-living-room blended into one, but it was okay. They could never afford a television set, and never needed a dining table, happy to curl up around the coffee table they converted to a makeshift kotatsu with Kei’s spare duvet, and after too many posters, instruments propped up against bedframes, and lyrics scribbled onto pages pasted to the walls like oaths, the loft felt like home.
They’ve always had a good view of the streets from the window down, but Tobio dissolves the yuzu into boiling water with a careful hand, passes the mug to Shouyou handle-first, holding the hot porcelain in his own hands so that Shouyou needn’t grab it, and there isn’t any other view in the world.
In one of their rarer, sillier moments, Shouyou, Tobio, and Kei, the three guitar players, realized that they could run the guitar through different objects of matter, fitting plugins into the most absurd of things, and that they would produce different sounds through their shared amp.
They had tried almost anything in the house they could find: Shouyou’s lyricbook, Tobio’s strenuous collection of nail files, Kei’s headphones, Kei himself. Each thing warped the sound a guitar was supposed to make, twists and twangs that amused them so, maybe a little too much.
Music is transformative, of this Shouyou has always known, but Shouyou thinks that, in this moment, if Tobio hooked his guitar up to Shouyou right now and played even the simplest strum, that it would betray everything in him and sound out nothing but I love you, in the erratic vibration of his heartbeat, paced out in eight-bar blues.
Tobio hands Shouyou the mug and retreats back to his corner like he didn’t grab Shouyou’s wrist, read his mind, and show him what he’s been looking for all this time.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
Shouyou has always loved music, loved it with his whole heart and more, but it isn’t until meeting Tobio that he understands just how to truly play it.
Obsessively. Without fear. Headfirst.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
It’s barely ten seconds before the show lights come on that Shouyou breaks his vocal rest. It’s about time. Hitoka has been chattering for the last half hour or so, after all.
No one is looking. Hitoka is practicing her vocal warmups last-minute, facing the wall; Kei and Tadashi are going over their last synchronizations leaned over the bass drum; Shouyou turns to Tobio who stands tuning his guitar for the fourth time tonight, and says, “I love you.”
He says it wide and open and honest. He’s never meant anything more.
Tobio’s eyes widen, just as large as open as Shouyou feels. His fingers still over the tuning pegs like a reckoning.
Tobio says, strained and hoarse, “Hinata, what?”
No one is looking. The venue’s stage manager is already striding towards them.
“Go time,” she says, brisk, headset at the ready. “Kick ass, guys.”
Throwing her a lazy salute, Tadashi is already taking a seat before his drums.
“Hinata—” Tobio tries, white-knuckled, desperate, but Shouyou can already hear Kei starting his opening bassline.
Lights come on.
“Thank you all so much for coming tonight!” Hitoka, beaming; “And boy, do we have a show for you.”
Hissed, barely audible over the noise: “Hinata—”
Shouyou turns to the front, and faces the music.
“Ichi, ni, san, yon!”
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪˚✮♬₊˚⊹♡
Tobio fucks up twice during their set. Nobody misses the glares Kei shoots his way, nor the way Tadashi’s cymbals crash for just a bit too long, the way they always do when he’s upset and trying not to show it. Unfortunately for them, they always play with emotion first. Even Tobio.
Tobio fucking up is unheard of, let alone doing it twice. Shouyou feels each stumbling finger and each missed fret like a skip in his obsessed, fearless, headfirst heartbeat. His job, from the start, has always, always been to keep the rhythm. He’s never felt more in control.
Tobio grabs him after the set too quickly to even let anybody reprimand him. He rejects the option of an encore with nothing more than some version of an ugly growl, eyes never once leaving Shouyou’s.
“Backstage,” he growls, guitar fingers squeezed tight around Shouyou’s upper arm. Shouyou’s guitar heart thrums, thrums, thrums.
“Tobio,” he tries, and he’s always called him that, has never called him Kageyama, not once, could never bear the distance even before really knowing him.
“Tobio, listen.”
“Shut up,” Tobio all but hisses, barely visible in the gloomy backstage lighting. Venues are made for all the light to stream outwards, anyway. He drags him back, back, back, past the changing rooms, staff shooting them odd looks, but rockstars are always a little eccentric, a little odd, and they are nothing but a pair of those, anyway.
“Tobio, stop.” Shouyou yanks his arms away, feeling the drag of Tobio’s fingers trying to keep him in place. “What is wrong with you?”
“With me?” Tobio spins in place, index finger held stern and vigorous at Shouyou’s chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Tobio’s eyes are dark and serious. Shouyou wonders if he could get away with pretending he hadn’t said anything at all.
Shouyou thinks, fuck it.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” He hisses back, pointing a finger in retaliation. “I fucking love you. That’s what’s wrong with me.”
All hundred and eighty-eight centimeters of Tobio freeze still as a statue. Shouyou doesn’t dare move even an inch, in fear of shattering whatever has just begun to settle.
“I love you,” he says, quiet and simple. He lowers his hand back to his side. The words echo around his head, and he finds them no less true than they’ve been all this time.
“I love you,” he says, and the words have been there all along.
Tobio’s eyes dart between his eyes and around his face like he’s trying to read something that’s not there. Shouyou wants to know what he sees. Shouyou watches the little micro-movements of Tobio’s mouth, twitches and purses like he’s trying to say something but doesn’t know what. So often does Tobio have little to say. So rarely does he look like he’s itching to try.
It’s not his fault; Shouyou only just found his words, just now.
“You can’t do that,” Tobio says, finally, teeth-gritted and tight. “Hinata, you can’t.”
“You always call me that,” Shouyou responds instead, petulant, protective. “Never anything else.”
Tobio’s face scrunches up. “Hinata?” He asks, incredulous. “That’s your name.”
“No one else calls me that,” Shouyou argues. “We’re meant to be a team.”
“A team,” Tobio splutters, jaw dropping open then snapping closed. Guitar fingers twitch merciless at his sides. “You're telling me this is about the team?”
“Of course not, idiot! The team is great. The team is fucking fine.”
“Then what’s your fucking problem?” Tobio half-shouts.
Shouyou doesn’t remember moving, but somewhere in his fit had he pushed off the wall he was cornered against and started taking jerky steps forward. Tobio’s shadow washes over him, backstage lights like promises casting both of them into darkness. Only the whites of Tobio’s eyes are visible, the movement of his body fidgeting in the dark, and Shouyou thinks that it looks perfect, like the rest of him.
“My problem,” he says, softly, “is you.”
Shouyou shoves a finger into the center of Tobio’s chest and Tobio reaches out to swipe his hand away on petty instinct. Fingers close around Shouyou’s wrist, both of them refusing to budge. Rock, hard place, Shouyou never wants to be anywhere else.
“I love you,” Shouyou says lowly, slow, like he’s trying to spell the words out. “And I love this band. And for the longest time I tried to put it first.”
Tobio’s fingers tighten around Shouyou’s hand; Shouyou can taste yuzu concentrate in the air.
“But I can’t. I love the band. I love the band with all my heart.”
He shakes Tobio off this time, until his hand unwraps and drops limp to his side. Shouyou follows the movement with his eyes before drawing them back up, and finds that Tobio hasn’t looked away, not once.
“Can’t help it,” Shouyou says, finally, as put-together as he can manage. “Just can’t.”
Tobio’s hair has dried from the show in messy, tangled strands. Shouyou can just catch hints of navy in between. His fringe hasn’t grown long enough to cover his eyes yet, though he’s nearly overdue for a trim. Hitoka will sit him down, will force him to, in their own bathroom this time, and bring out the scissors. Shouyou always, always feels like a voyeur.
“Why,” Tobio starts, hoarse voice barely above a whisper, “Did it ever have to be like that?”
His fingers creep back up, agitated, but only end up twitching between them. Shouyou longs to grab, to touch.
“Why would they ever even be separate,” Tobio asks, more a statement than a question, like something he knows to be true, divulged into the dark. Shouyou hears his teeth grind together before he speaks.
Tobio asks again, disjointed, “God, Hinata, what even is guitar to you?”
And, honestly, Shouyou thinks, in a frenzy, in a daze, What a stupid fucking question to ask.
“Tobio.” He grabs Tobio’s hands out of the air for nothing if not to stop them from moving. Those pesky little guitar habits. Grips them tight between his hands, rough so Tobio will feel it.
“For the last time, don’t fucking call me that.”
Tobio lets out a long breath, shakes Shouyou’s hands free.
“Don’t fucking fuck with me, Shouyou,” he spits. “I don’t care about whatever you’re justifying yourself with in your head. This is serious.”
“This is serious,” Tobio says, dull, and his voice shakes, uncharacteristic. “To me.”
Shouyou longs to drag them into the light. He wants to see Tobio’s face.
Shouyou wants to see everything.
“It’s always been serious to me,” he responds, honest. “What could ever make you think otherwise?”
“Because—” Tobio bites down on the word, a diamond between bitter canines. “Because I love you. Always have.”
The lights flickering overhead haven’t stopped, but Shouyou feels everything freeze in the balance. He sucks in a hushed breath, accidental, lightheaded.
“What?” He reaches forward then, grabs the front of Tobio’s shirt, grabs anything. “Since when?”
“Since always,” Tobio bites out, and he won’t meet Shouyou’s eyes. “From the beginning. So don’t fuck with me.” Then, “Shouyou.”
Then, “Please,” he says, and he suddenly looks so small, like the shadows are casting him out. “Just don’t.”
Shouyou struggles with words, registers the silence between them, and forces them out. “Tobio, how?”
“How?” Tobio grabs the hand keeping Shouyou in place. “What do you mean, how?”
“It’s the easiest thing,” he says, miserable. “The best. The way you play. Sing.”
He looks down at him, then, meets his eyes, and Shouyou feels rooted in place, tied down by six perfect steel strings.
“Shouyou,” Tobio asks, quiet. “How could I not?”
“Tobio,” Shouyou breathes. All he can do is breathe. All Tobio does is look at him.
“Can you say something?” Tobio asks, furtive, plaintive.
“Tobio,” Shouyou says again, in lieu of saying anything else. “I tried to be so careful.”
“Didn’t matter,” is all Tobio says in reply. He doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t let go. Shouyou feels the warmth through the layer of Tobio’s shirt. Feels, for the first time, no layers at all, none holding him back.
He lets out a little, feeble laugh. “I love you, Tobio,” he admits, and the way Tobio jerks sends a thrill like music down his spine. Perfect, wanting. Whole.
Tobio sighs, deep and heavy, and his shoulders curl inwards. Shouyou wants to drag him close.
“You’re terrible for me,” Tobio confesses. “Shouyou.”
Alone, in the dark, Shouyou feels like he’s on top of the world. Feels like he’s watching live music. Feels like he’s playing it, on stage and glowing, side by side with his band, and his guitarist. His guitarist.
Years and years of wishing are beginning to wash away, snow after a long, cold season. Shouyou feels like he’s thawing. He looks up at Tobio and catches a glimpse of the sun peeking out, winter turning to spring.
“I can’t do this,” Tobio sighs, heavy, and straightens. His eyes focus with that tight, singular drive Shouyou knows so, awfully well.
Tobio’s grip grows tighter. “Let me take you out,” he begs, and Shouyou is rocked backwards with his urgency. “Let me, please. I can’t fuck this up.”
“You could never,” Shouyou says, soft, aweing, and means it. “I love you.”
Something choked-off forces its way out of Tobio’s throat. He drops his head forwards, and Shouyou takes the weight.
“It’s been so long,” he mumbles, muffled into Shouyou’s shoulder. The vibrations of his voice play through him, heavy, warm; Shouyou imagines it on loop, remixed, pressed into vinyls, burned onto CDs.
Shouyou imagines Tobio with him, by his side, on stage, forever. For a lifetime. Rockstars are known to crash and burn, but Tobio plays guitar like a god, and Shouyou has never known love like anything else.
It’s just the music. The way it sings.
“Come home with me,” he breathes, and Tobio’s body shakes. “Make me tea.”
“Please,” Tobio says, pure, wild relief, and Shouyou laughs, tiny, alive, and turns to face the music.