Chapter Text
Ah, New York City at night… It might be your third greatest love.
It’s a marvel – a filthy, wet, pulsating marvel of bodies twirling and grinding in the pit below you. The stage floor is cold. This is your home.
It melts against your hot, bare back like ice on flames, nursing you back to life after the ninety-minute show took it out of you. Your voice sounds like delicate nails on wood – scraping and creaking in your throat as words you wrote two years ago about love sit uncomfortably in your chest. You and Suguru play this setlist every single night, and yet it never gets easier. You think it might actually make the two of you worse.
Suguru isn’t the same sweet lover he used to be, and you’re not the ethereal fire-dancer that twirled and swooned around his flames anymore, but the words still land like you are.
“Everything washes away with you, dark blue, dark blue.”
You sing to the vaulted ceiling, voice shivering, heels pressed onto your x-markers. The floor digs uncomfortably into the back of your head – you’re trying to farm feeling just like you farm love, by running into the rush head-on.
“Dark blue, baby, I love you.”
Most of your songs are like that – soft with nearly nothing but Suguru’s bass and a bit of your guitar. Everything except that, and a few light piano loops and background vocals, comes from session musicians, but you two are notorious for rarely using them. Everything you sing about is so raw and uncomfortable that stealing that power away with noise just doesn’t fit. After so many years of the same creative process, you two know what works and draws an audience the best; now you’re selling out ten-thousand-capacity venues in under ten minutes.
If life is so good, why do you feel so bad?
“You see me, ah – I’ll wear that skirt that you love and make your bed once the sun comes up. I’ll be there for you. Don’t have to call, baby. I’m on my way. Just down the road, unlock the door.”
“I’ll kiss the stains on your skin till my lips are bruised and blue. Mm, like you, baby. So blue…. Blue… Dark blue.”
The crowd roars as the stage lights fade to fitting blue hues, accompanied by the final strums of the guitar. You’re on the floor, catching your breath from the rush of the encore. You always feel the heaviest after this time performing, fragile like a baby chick. Everything hurts as you stand up.
The curtains draw together, and the crowd screams louder. You swallow something down.
Behind you, Suguru’s already working at the wires of his earpiece, glistening with stage sweat and light makeup. As the lights turn up, he’s looking over at you. Glossy lips parted, long hair expertly slicked into a half-up style. Rings sparkle on his thick, long fingers – his manicure, fresh and shiny. His waist is so thinned out that the cut designer shirt he’s wearing doesn’t even touch it; he’s a slimmed-down goldmine.
Suguru’s cheeks hollowed out in these later years, especially after he hit thirty. He pulled out the snakebites that had given him that earlier rock persona, pierced both nostrils, and moved up a gauge size.
Now, he looks at you with beady, silvery-black eyes, rubbing his lips together, fingers lost in the looseness of his spiked belt. “How are you feeling?” He talks as politely as ever, save for his ruggish outward appearance. He’s mentioning you, who doesn’t look much better – hair ruffled, makeup smudged, skirt cocked, and hands shaking. You shake your head.
How can you explain it… Things are complicated with you two now.
You met Suguru right as you turned twenty, the moment you moved to New York. He had moved there from Japan to be in a band, and you were there to make an album. Performing wherever you could put you into some dangerous spots, financially and physically. New York is a cesspool, and your young mind was a playground for it.
Suguru was kind. Sweet. He played bass in your favorite alternative rock band long before he was twenty-five, but the age gap didn’t mean anything. You knew as soon as he introduced himself to you personally that you’d do anything to be with him.
If only you knew what you were getting yourself into. Come to find out, dating bassists who are ten years your senior can be a little detrimental, but you don’t care. Suguru fell for you as soon as you opened your mouth and sang, let alone when you picked up his guitar and played him the exact chord progression you wanted to hear in the booth of your first shared studio session.
It’s not just your face, it’s you. It’s why Suguru thinks you two have finally reached the peak of your career. You’re just so beautiful and mysterious – he doesn’t blame the public for loving you like he does.
Suguru’s more surprised about how they perceive him. It’s hard to do a lot of talking when he tends to stray from the spotlight, so he lets himself lean into your mystique. No social media, no interviews, no talk show performances. No, you two will be just as wealthy and careless playing as legends to your broad niche rather than trying to lean to the mainstream. That’s what Suguru is comfortable with. He doesn’t like to stray from what he’s comfortable with.
“I want to take that song off the setlist.” You murmur, pulling out your earpiece and taking your mic pack from your strapped thigh. It fits like a garter; you’ll have to fully unwind it when you get to the dressing room. Right now, stagehands move everywhere like ants swarming a queen. You could barely fit the mention in with the chaos.
“They seem to enjoy it?” He quirks a thin brow, only using this softer tone of voice when he’s talking to you. Privately, Suguru isn’t known for being the kindest. The truth is, he’s just aloof. When he’s not working, he’s sleeping, or with you in some form. He really only sees the nightlife when he does guest DJ sets around the city during his off-tour time.
Suguru follows you through the backstage, shooing off his instrument handler when he tries to get his attention. You glance over at them, scowling under the shitty flickering lights. “Look, tours over in a few nights. Get over it. The crowd enjoys it.”
“You don’t have to tell me to ‘get over it’.” You reply, pushing past him and a few other members of your small staff as you head into the back hallway. The venue is somewhat dingy, but it's notorious for the number of shows it hosts. Autographs from legends past are scribbled into the wall – signed records, posters, and pictures. The maximalism hurts your head. “It’s my song, and there are better ways to say you don’t agree with me.” Suguru still follows you, stuffing his hands into his front pockets. His footsteps are heavier than yours, but they sound softer against the sharp designer click of your kitten heels.
“Then, what about the song is so bad for you? It’s vague enough, right? You fought for Eater on the setlist, and I caved, though the whole point of the song is to dig into me as a man.” Suguru is nothing if not insanely intelligent. The hard years of bad lessons and burnout provided him with the study material to shape his brain into what it needs to be now. He needs to be able to turn it off when he’s performing – if he’s thinking too hard, he’ll fuck up. If he’s too high or even touches a speck of alcohol, the entire performance is doomed. Sure, he’ll pump out a few off-beat basslines just because it’s muscle memory, but he’ll spend the whole next day digging into himself. He doesn’t need the ghost of your amplified voice ringing in his ears after a show now, too.
Suguru’s words don’t exactly land well – you walk with your hands crossed over your chest. “Baby, don’t be so sad.” He tries again, Suguru pouts into your back, voice sweet and soft as he tries to reel you in. He wants to reach out and touch, but falls short when he works up the nerve to try. “They love you, and you look so beautiful.”
You’re shivering in your midnight blue ensemble, lace tied around your knuckles, grungy leather jacket doing nothing to keep you warmer. It feels like even when you’re locked indoors, New York still finds a way to send cold air to you. “‘M gonna start my period, I know. And I’m just hungry–” you’re starting to cry, overwhelmed with the outpouring of love from the audience, Suguru’s hovering reflection and sweet tone, and the way he’s being so thorough tonight.
Sure, you two just argued about the soundcheck set list on the way to the venue, but he’s still your man. You have to let him in.
-
You two make it in front of the dressing room, and he’s reaching over your body to push the metal door open before you can even reach for the knob. “Singing that fuck-ass song did not help.”
“What is so bad about the song? I swear half of it is just you repeating the same line followed by guitar.”
“It’s the tone, the feeling.”
“The feeling of the entire album?” He can’t hide it in his tone – can never hide it in his face as he quirks his lips, head tilting to the side. “My Love, you don’t particularly make ‘happy’ music, but nobody out there is here to laugh and joke.”
You’re mumbling, feeling sorry for yourself in clothes too tight and makeup too thick. The automatic lights switch on at your presence, and you can see your sad, painted face in the mess of mirrors. Mirrors everywhere — Suguru’s pristine tattooed skin splayed right behind you.
He smiles, reaching to tuck some hair behind your ear. “I love you and the fact that you still cry after every show. It’s always a different excuse, but it rules your mind every single time. Precious girl.” The door swings shut behind you two, blocking out the rustle of the venue. Suguru leans over your shoulder and kisses you where your leather slips, letting it linger. “The truth is, we can pick a new song, but they’re all about me. Different subjects, yes, but if you’re trying to run from the point, I’m afraid it’s just useless.”
“You don’t always have to be so wise.” You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the vibration of words in your shoulder. He kisses you again, then takes your arm, spinning you around so you’re face-to-face. “And I don’t wanna sing if it’s not about you.”
“Write that down.” He whispers against your lips once you go to kiss him. You smile into him, fingers fiddling around the back of his neck. Suguru holds you there for a moment, staring down at you and your pitiful, child-like stare that never, ever falters when you’re looking at him.
You giggle, biting down on your bottom lip. “Not everything is a one-liner.”
“A lot of it is, though. You are an artist.” He pauses, kissing the front of your forehead like he’s complimenting its greatness. “Your thought process is different. I would know, I studied it – who would I be if not My Girl’s biggest fan?”
“A little less of a simp.” You giggle. His sweet, clueless face draws together – still not fully entranced in western slang.
“Less of a wh-
It takes a second for you two to remember that you’re not truly alone, here. Yes, the door is shut, but it won’t lock. There’s chatter only a few steps away – luggage is being hauled. Someone knocks, too. Just once. You two know who it is immediately, and he doesn’t wait for you two to acknowledge him before creaking it open.
On the other side stands Kento Nanami – Suguru’s manager, ever since he went solo from his band back home. It was a messy split, Suguru was the driving force, and the fans were up in arms. The only thing he kept from the divorce was his team. All the managers, producers, PR, and assistants he hired outside of the broken record deal all hopped ship to America like nothing happened. Suguru didn’t even bother rebranding; he just didn’t say anything about it. That’s his biggest talent – silence, avoidance. It’s what burns you every time.
Kento stands with his back pressed to the door, still wearing a suit well past midnight. His golden hair is tousled like he’s had a drink, and thin, silver-framed glasses sit low on his nose. You wonder if he sat and watched the show, knowing he typically likes to peek out from backstage.
Over Suguru’s shoulder, you and Kento lock eyes through the doorway. You smile.
Kento doesn’t look too hard in the dressing room, knowing you two get into more than you should. He clears his throat, and Suguru’s waist loosens on your hips. The show was good. Got you two set up in Tribeca, it’s a good hotel.”
“Hi, Kento.” You smile, gnawing at your soft bottom lip. Suguru turns around, raising a thin, pierced eyebrow.
“What is our out-time?”
Kento checks his watch, sighing with a crook in his neck. He is certainly no stranger to long nights, but the last run of shows on tour was always the most taxing. He’s starting to feel it gather and pull at his shoulders first. “Half-hour, maximum. It’s a residency; there’s nothing serious we have to move. It’s just a matter of clearing the stage.”
“Mm–kay,”
Kento takes your ease with overwhelming neutrality, still not setting foot in that doorway. “That also means you don’t have time for that crowd to disperse. Even the back alley leads onto that main street. Be mindful.”
“Got it.” Suguru replies coolly, hands working up your sides before letting you go. The room is far too cold at his loss, but you don’t dare complain or even open your mouth when Suguru approaches the exit. “I can help you guys move-
“No, you should rest before the show tomorrow. Really, rest. Don’t drink, don’t push yourself.”
“I can move a few amps.” Suguru stands next to him in the doorway, hands smushing back in his pockets. They’re ready to go – to leave you in here while you twiddle your fingers. You don’t want to be alone.
You pull the door from Kento’s grip, letting those bright dressing room lights fill their silhouettes across the flicker of the hallway. Both of them give you a look unreadable to the naked eye, but blinding nonetheless. You feel like a prize ruby hidden behind reinforced glass. Suguru gives you a sweet, reassuring wink.
“Take your time getting dressed, hm? We’ll just be out here.”
“Hatch will be sending you some videos and pictures she took tonight,” Nanami adds before he slinks off with your man, referring to the only tour assistant allowed in front of barricades with the real photographers. Nanami runs a tight ship – every professional photographer he hires for shows must send their entire reel to him for approval before they’re cleared for editing. That takes weeks, making them essentially useless until it’s time to sell live versions of your songs. There are only a few that ever get seen past the lens – useless, once you factor in some of these photographers' rates.
“Don’t just sit in here and wait for something to happen, make posts.”
“Oh,” You mutter, watching them disappear behind the swinging door until the metal clicks. You stand alone for a second, pursing your face and wondering if you felt like you were being dramatic. They are definitely trying to shove you off to talk about something — what, you don’t think you’ll ever know.
They start as soon as that door clicks behind them. Kento regards Suguru over his shoulder, using his left hand to roll his sleeves. “You don’t keep in touch with the guys from Night Parade still, do you?”
Suguru scoffs, his old band name hanging unwelcome in the atmosphere he curated so carefully. In that dimly lit orange hallway, he shakes his head, killing Kento with his nonchalance. Truth be told, he hasn’t talked about them in years. Nobody dared to ask.
“Gojo Satoru.” Kento lets the name roll off his tongue like an old, festering wound – carefully and wary of infection. Then, as if he didn’t just still Suguru’s heart, he starts heading backstage.
Coming down from that jarring high, Suguru sputters. “What? What about him?”
“He reached out to me, saying he’d be in New York doing some sessions for a few American artists he favors. Strictly exercising my authority, I invited him to the wrap party on Friday.” He peeks back over his shoulder after every few words, making sure he can monitor Suguru’s facial expression well enough to gauge his reaction.
Against the dim lights, he’s still, emotionless – there’s nothing.
“And he said…?”
Kento finally stops, turning around to face Suguru head-on. They’re standing in a bad spot, blocking a group of tour staff as they try to maneuver their Marshall amp into the hallway. Mindlessly, they both disregard the chaos. Kento starts again. “He agreed before I could even get the words out.”
Bodies rush past like leaves in a wind tunnel. Backstage is still crawling with bodies. Hands are grabbing instruments, cords are being wound, and chatter makes it hard to think. Let alone the one thing Suguru always tried to forget – Gojo Satoru.
“You didn’t even ask me. Did you ask her? It’s my guest list, I thought we discussed this. ”
“She loves Gojo, you know, she just doesn’t listen to him near you out of respect.”
It takes a guitar neck to the shoulder for Kento to apologize loosely and clear the footpath. The two of them, calling themselves helping, glare at the innocent wage slaves until Kento fixes his lips to mutter out an apology.
Suguru shakes his head clear of it all, thin muscular arms crossed over his chest. He’s standing there like he swallowed ink — pitch black and lightless even with sterling silver glistening on his skin.“I’ve never even heard her speak about him. This is targeted.”
“Sure, you can think that.” Kento shrugs, eyebrows raised as Suguru’s attitude slinks off of him like water. “Look, you tell her about it. Make it a surprise and see just how happy she gets.”
Suguru opens his mouth, unsure of what to say that wasn’t a string of curses. They put up with each other too much and for too long to hide anything, and his displeasure is written all over his face, visible in even the grungiest of backstages.
Just before he can speak, his little tour assistant beats him to it, shrugging in from the shadows in her tight jeans and t-shirt. “Oh, Kento–
Kento’s pulled off into conversation by Hatch, nodding her frantic worries about equipment transportation along as Suguru’s heart plummets. Kento doesn’t care that Suguru left that band for a reason – that he abandoned his old life and all he knew just to slip into shiny new skin oceans away. He changed his genre, his hair, his face, covered tattoos, pulled out old piercings, and slipped monogamy on like a glove. It was all picture perfect, he had an overflow of money, you, his music, and no ghosts from his past.
Until Kento pulled the only loose string that remained.
“-and I tried to tell them that we have a license to carry all of this overseas, but since it’s a commercial flight,” Hatch rambles, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear as Kento’s dead-set stare takes her small frame hostage. Her height barely reaches his shoulders, but her thick, professionally curled brunette hair and unassuming dark eyes make her someone he can’t escape in a crowd.
Suguru steps into that conversation as if he had started it, his hands stuffed back in his pockets. “You’re lucky I am a very nice, sane person now, Nanami.”
Hatch gives him a slow, sideways look, unable to hide the unease gathered in her shoulders. “Hi, Suguru. What are you two tal-
Kento scoffs, reaching up to pull his glasses from his eyes and rub some reality into them. “Thanks for the threat. Seriously.”
Suguru knows his power – knows Kento would be fucked over if he allowed it, so he leans into the madness. “Yeah – I’m not gonna show up, how about that?”
“Whatever happened between you two happened well over ten years ago,” Kento turns back to his flustered twenty-two-year-old colleague, thrusting his brooding, big hand in her direction. “Give me – just show me the email they sent.”
“Yes, sir.” Hatch scrambles, under harsh, grating personalities she doesn’t quite know how to handle emotionally. Of course, she knows they’re mad at circumstance – certainly not at her, right?
“Suguru, if you don’t show up to the wrap party of your tour, she will be devastated.”
“If there’s no wrap party at all, then we’ll all be devastated.” He sighs in closure, taking a few backward steps. He glares down at the pair like they just cursed him, but Kento is used to this dance. He shakes his head.
Suguru turns on the ball of his feet, stoic face morphing into a familiar crowd pleaser as he approaches the crew. “Hey, you guys need help?”
“Yo, Suguru!”
“Did you send her those images?” Kento mutters, eyes scanning between two phones in his hands as he relays the email to his personal phone, left eye twitching in annoyance and exhaustion.
Giddy to please after the secondhand scold, Hatch chirps, “Oh, yes!”
“A normal tone of voice will do just fine, Hatch. It is past midnight.”
The poor girl slinks into herself, having flashbacks to her father’s strict tone when Nanami’s annoyance is too thick to see through. She clears her throat, giving him a nervous little shiny laugh. “Yeah… I um – I didn’t take a lot of good ones, but I tagged her in a few story posts? I just don’t know if she’ll want to post thos-
“This is their hometown show…” He deadpans, all life sucked from his soul as she continues.
Sweet, naive Hatch. She just can’t read Nanami well enough to tell him a lie. “Mhm, yes, sir.”
“Therefore, at least three pictures need to be posted every single night. I don’t understand how your assignment couldn’t have been clearer.”
Her smile drops, wide brown eyes unblinking as Nanami’s stare damns her to Hell. “Sorry! I will send them ASAP.”
“Sure.” Nanami regards her hardly, pushing her phone back into her chest. He can see Suguru over Hatch’s shoulder, carrying out the last amp they needed to move before packing up all the instruments. A strict fire lane needs to be established before and after showtime, and if they were packing for a whole new venue, they’d be here at least five hours past midnight. Nanami doesn’t care about timeliness, though. Not right now, he cares about making sure that amp doesn’t fall on Suguru’s foot. “Okay – careful, now.”
Suguru ignores him easily, but not the spindly blonde stage hand. No, he peeks at Nanami over his shoulder and gives him the deepest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. It’s a little unnerving in circumstances like this, in hours as late as such, but the joy is needed. Just look who he’s transporting that heaviness with – the absolute persona of bleak blackness.
The next time you see Suguru is amongst the brush of that too-cold breeze that flows amongst the city at night. You had peeled off all of your layers in the dressing room mirror with one of your closest friends on the phone. Together, you two discussed the closing night of the tour, which was only two days away. She’d be flying in from the countryside, making sure you were notified of her plans so her presence wouldn’t still you in your boots from the balcony.
Performing is easy, but not for people you’ve known for your entire life. Singing out about Suguru was easy, but writing in a closed studio space was a challenge. You feel too suffocated when you’re too close – it shows in all you do.
It’s why you’re slinking out of the rusty back doors mysteriously, black cap covering your hair, hoodie half-zipped and hanging from your shoulders lazily. There’s a small, metal barricade keeping the exclusive entrance somewhat secure, but you really shouldn’t be out here alone. It’s your anxiety – nothing to do with the stray fans and everything to do with the state of New York once the witching hour sets in.
Hands stuffed up in your pockets close to your chest, the sound of your name pulls your attention. It’s flustered like someone knows you, but you don’t know them.
Your smile lights up the dark when you see a small group of fans boasting bouquets, gift bags, and physical copies of you and Suguru’s latest album in their hands. You know this group – have seen them at multiple shows across the Nation, so you approach with a pep in your step.
“Hi, babies!” You smile, wary of the two phone cameras that focus on your face. Something in your mind pings you to be cautious of what you say, but it doesn’t dull your energy. It’s nearly three hours after the show wrapped, and this group waited patiently every second just for this moment.
You spend each second you can grab with your fans, signing records and nodding to niche memories they shared of you, them, and Suguru. It feels like these strangers know you better than you know yourself, and it hits to the core. You almost feel a distinct, motherly draw to these wide, adoring eyes, these sweet faces so swollen with love and pride. You even lean and kiss one of them on the cheek. You just hardly caught her name – Annie.
You told Annie you’d see her at the barricade for the show, and tomorrow she said she’d attend. You gasped and told her how much her multi-day commitment meant to you, and she complimented your perfume. If the power balance weren’t so skewed, you’re sure you and Annie could be best friends. Perhaps that’s your soft, naive mind. Suguru picks at it endlessly, saying you’re too wholehearted for him.
When the doors to the venue creak and pull open again, you’re still talking to the group of fans, chatting on and on about the type of flowers one of them picked out for you. The Magnolias are named after a song on one of your first albums – the song is about Suguru, likening the feeling and paleness of his skin to the soft petals. Now, as you trace your fingertips over the barely-there hairs over the softness of the stem, you don’t notice him approaching you from behind.
You don’t notice Kento trailing him. Not Hatch, either. And not until they’re hot on your trail.
The boy standing in a brand-new band shirt next to Annie sees them first, eyes sparkling beyond vocal comprehension.
“Suguru? Suguru!!”
The sound of his voice and you’re whipping your head around, a big smile getting even bigger at the sight of him. He changed, too – into something simple, but perfect nonetheless. Heather grey t-shirt, baggy black sweatpants, and imported designer sneakers. All of his hair is secured in a tight, well-kept bun at the nape of his neck, overhang brushing the top of his spine as his bangs blow in that cool breeze that kept you locked in layers.
“Hi, thank you guys for coming.” His deep, smooth voice feels like velvet running over your parched, naked skin. The sound makes you shiver.
Suguru wraps his arm around your shoulder like a call to claim. You show him the flowers, smiling ear to ear as he gasps at the delicate, flowering display.
Fans talk over each other, some asking about Night Parade – most asking about you and the newness you’ve planned together. Suguru entertains them for long enough, his sweet eyes shut as he nods and laughs politely. To everyone but you, it seems like he loves this. Only you know the burden this will take once he lays his head tonight, if he ever does.
Time ticks – sirens blow late into the night. It’s jarring, yet so beautiful in your ears as wind rushes past. Suguru’s actually leaning into the fans and their questions, nodding like he’s the focus of an interview with an armful of gifts. It must’ve been well over twenty minutes – the traffic light in front of you rolled through countless cycles. You even heard the whisper of one of your songs blaring through the open windows of a sedan. Life is easy, right now, once the pain of the stage fades, and the uncertainty circling your relationship settles into dust.
His inked arms show a lifetime of work and dedication, and against the soft heather you find yourself admiring the swan drawn on his forearm. It twitches and dances as he shifts some of the bags and posters into that arm, and you smile at the familiarity. Your sparkling, lovestruck gaze isn’t lost on him because he feels it and blinks down at you, still listening to the fan about how far they traveled to be here whilst drinking in your ease. Suguru wishes he could tell you how much he loves you right now – watch the way your pretty face blooms in surprise, as if it’s not the most obvious thing in the world. He wants all of your sweet fans to see it, too. He wonders if they can read your short, shared gaze.
“Surely you aren’t making that trip again tonight, right?” He only looks away in favor of carrying on a conversation, eyes wide when the fan replies.
“Nope, we’re all staying for this residency! We love you guys’ last run of shows, it’s always so much fun.” She turns around, motioning to all her star-struck friends. “We met last tour at the New York shows. They’re the loves of my life, seriously. Nobody else will sacrifice calluses and peeing in cups all day just to watch you guys at barricade. They do, though. That’s the kind of love I need in my life.”
Suguru nods after every word, hyper-focused on coming up with the perfect response to maintain the god-like plaster this group slathers him in. “And that’s the kind of love you’ll never find anywhere else.”
You smile towards the ground, his arm still warm around your shoulders as you cradle your bouquet. Most of the time you two spend together is spent talking, singing, or humming some rendition of the love you feel for each other. Suguru doesn’t view himself as a singer, much less a songwriter, but his mind is a graveyard littered with corpse-filled pockets from a past he can’t truly bury.
He wrote you a poem once, titled The Way You Are. He dives into the point he hates about himself the most – his love for you. He hates how quickly he’d throw his life to the wolves to see you just once more. He hates the fact that he sees your eyes when he falls asleep and can’t escape your voice in his dreams. Though he loves you, he hates you – himself, everything, life. Yet, he doesn’t want it to end. He doesn’t want you to end.
You keep that tattered, torn page from his diary in your nightstand, crying to it when you miss him, or smiling at it after a fight. It’s one of the only living, accurate reflections of his love for you. Suguru could never write a love song. Not like you can.
The small group of fans, now growing thicker as pedestrians notice the familiarity of your face, tries to pull you back in conversation. Suguru is scrambling, feeling like a goldfish in a bowl as these questions about his old band and controversial past start pelting him like rotten tomatoes. It’s hard to smile, so when you see it falter, all you can do is protect him. All you need are your words.
“-Mm, that song was actually a sample from his older work – look, I love my flowers and all my gifts, you guys are just so sweet.” You start, face pouted downwards, guilty as hell for shoving them off like strangers after they’ve invested their lives and money into your art.
Suguru, however, doesn’t give a fuck. He’s your perfect opposite. “We have to get going.”
“But, please come find us tomorrow after the show! Same spot, we’re just so tired.”
The group erupts in scattered, flustered goodbyes and endearments, trying to pull you in but respectful enough to know you two have to leave. The entire twenty-minute ordeal was hovered over by Kento and Hatch, the deeper understanding groupies recognizing them as staff. Kento’s been in the industry for well over ten years – Suguru’s constant side-by-side throughout his early career. A small, niche group of your fans swear he’s royalty – a tall, brooding blonde that takes zero shit and puts you two on a pedestal fit for Gods. He manages your career with you two in his ear, always putting the music first and your well-being second. The money is just a perk of the situation he finds himself in, and he manages so well that you’ve never faced a lack.
When you and Suguru turn around, Kento snaps into that work-altered state of mind, shrugging Hitch off mid-conversation and instead walking away to meet you two halfway. He opens his mouth before the distance is closed, pointing aimlessly at the piles of love in your arms.
“Generous.”
“Too generous,” Suguru adds.
You look down, giggling softly. “They’re so sweet and have been at the barricade the last two nights.”
Kento nods, shirt unbuttoned at the top and tie hanging off the bone. He’s too exhausted, now – unable really to speak and exert energy in a way that wasn’t getting himself to the closest mattress. However, he hides it well through his prescription glasses, nodding towards the gold-wrapped bouquet.
Though you two have shrugged off, the group of fans still lingers, waiting around to see if you two will turn and entertain them a bit more. It’s a lost cause – most of them see that as the conversation with Kento leads to following him towards the back alley. An idling black van waits around the corner – tinted windows and obscure branding doing nothing to dull your fleeing presence.
Kento opens the back door. You and Suguru slip inside.
Hatch waits by the door, thin hand pressed in the frame as she watches you two settle in. Suguru sits on your left – you’re against the window, his hand finds the space above your knee and squeezes before Kento can even crawl in.
“You guys have a good night.”
“You’re not headed to Tribeca?” You smile, doing little to let your exhaustion poke through. Next to you, Suguru is already a zombie, nodding off, sharp eyes all rimmed red and pitiful. Still, in his sleep-lust daze, he has it in him to squeeze your thigh just to remind you here’s there.
Hatch shakes her head quickly, a little smile on her face. “No, the crew and I are headed uptown. You three have the important lodging, it’s all that matters.”
Kento steps in, and Hatch moves out of his way without being asked. She continues, “It’s so late, you guys need to get going. Call is at two tomorrow.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me – why?”
“Soundcheck. Again.” Kento deadpans, adjusting into his seat, letting his heavy head fall into his open palm. It seems out of everyone here, you’re the sharpest – you and the driver who meets your gaze when you peek into the rearview. “After that? Rehearsals and wardrobe. Same thing tomorrow – same thing two years from now.”
Suguru’s head lolls back against the carseat headrest, sighing deep in his chest, eyes screwed shut. “Can you close the door? It’s cold.”
“Alright – yeah, we’re leaving.”
“Bye, Hatchie! Good night, thank you for everything today!”
“Good night, sweetheart! Sleep well-
Before she can finish, Kento shuts the door in her face, and you wince. “Really?”
Kento doesn’t speak, instead he motions to Suguru – to that look on his face, that crook in his brow. You look over, eyebrows pulled together as his reflection hits you in that too-familiar way you hate. He didn’t sleep more than two hours last night – the day before, he was awake before the sun even came up. Now, he’s feeling it, and he’ll feel it in his bones if he doesn’t drop his head and finally get some sleep tonight.
You know the truth. You know his habits and his sorrows – how they hit late at night and render an entire night's sleep useless. City after city, Suguru can’t sleep. He can’t even think.
Yet, he still does this for you. Yes, his spine is buckling and bending under the weight, but it’s also bending from the money. There’s so much of it, and with so much freedom comes freedom to do everything else.
The ten-minute car ride turns into forty-five with the late New York traffic. Suguru’s head leans into you, eventually settling shamelessly in your lap as the car soothes him under. You and Kento have nothing to talk about – it’s three in the morning, all you’d be able to talk about is sleep.
You stare down at Suguru, watching the way your fingers slip and tangle in his dark, inky sea of mid-back length hair. For years, you thought it was your favorite feature of his – now, you think it’s his hands. Long, strong fingers always wrapped in dark gold bands and vintage statement rings. He hires a nail technician to touch them up, preferring they look a bit dingy later in the month as a testament to his hard work. Suguru lives, eats, and sleeps for his bass. He writes entire songs on it in less than five minutes, then picks up his guitar and accompanies the chord progression he just created from thin air.
It's like watching a sculpture being created – just sitting back with your diary watching him stew and play at a desktop producing, tracking, writing, producing even more, and cheering on your ideas. Working with him, being with him – he is your second most incredible love. Music is your first.
This city that’s passing you by in streaking headlights is the third. You feel something when you gaze out of the window, touching the slick wintery roads in your bones as the car jerks and hits almost every pothole. The only thing you can hear is the hum of the engine, the crackle of tires. You rest your head on your shoulder, fingers smoothing under Suguru’s chin, holding him like a son. Finally, your eyes slip shut.
Sleep never comes. As soon as its promise kisses your brow, the car rolls to a gentle stop. Lights grow harsher – foot traffic louder, even at this ungodly time of night. The hotel lights are bright, but it's a promise to the sleep that was soon to come. Expensive sleep, the kind where you’re tucked up under Suguru all night on a good night.
You pray tonight will be one of those. You two need it – deserve it.
Kento sits up, empty gaze shifting out of the window as the driver parks, rounds the car, and opens the door. Usually, this isn’t customary, but it’s so late that nothing makes sense anymore. Kento unbuckles his seatbelt, sighing somewhere deep in his chest, and steps out into the night.
You and Suguru sit alone for a second – his eyes flutter peacefully, you’re staring down at him, nails scritching the underside of his jaw. You know that once you stop petting him, he’ll dart from sleep, but it’s still a sweeter awakening than calling his name.
You stop touching him. His eyes peek open, exhausted and confused.
“Good morning, handsome.”
“Hello, beautiful.” He still finds it in his chest to love you even when he’s so run-down and ripe with unease. He sits up, figuring he woke up due to the idling of the car, not from the idle of your touch. “I’ve never been so happy to see a hotel.”
You laugh so softly that there’s nothing really there. “We’re spoiled.”
He hums in agreement, grunting as he slips out of the car and onto the coolness of the street. Upon impact, his hair is flying back in the breeze, blowing his sweet, savory scent in the car for you to get high on. You stumble as you sit up to leave, hands and feet weak from overwork. Outside, the men's voices are lost against the rush of air. Suguru crosses his arms over his chest like he’s cold. Kento shrugs.
“Sure, but that decision I made is not up for debate.” Kento finishes the thought Suguru offered him while you were still in the car, and you can hear it conclude the second your feet hit the cold pavement.
“Hm?” You inquire, lips pulled into an easy smile as you lean into Suguru’s closed-off frame.
Kento goes to open his mouth and lay it all on the field – tell you everything. Yet, Suguru won’t let that happen. “For the wrap par-
As soon as he breathes, Suguru cuts him off. “God, forget I even brought it up.”
You’re silent as the tension grows hotter, and you know you don’t know anything in the grand scheme of things. Kento and Suguru have a history that spans your entire lifetime. Sure, you know most, but you don’t know everything. You don’t think you even want to know everything. Suguru didn’t have an easy go of things back in Japan.
He does open up for you, though, winding his long arm across your shivering shoulders as Kento sighs into the night. Standing under the lit overhang over the hotel entrance, the three of you idle as words clog and burn in your throat before you can even spit them out. You can see that neither of them is upset – Kento’s about to be if he doesn’t sleep, but that’s an issue that was in the process of being handled. Now, he just wants to make sure you two are settled – locked in your room for the night, not out and about in the city, kicking up trouble and pulling attention in some dingy bar on the corner. That’s a recurring theme, especially in New York.
You don’t question Suguru, knowing he’ll double down and throw his defenses up if he’s challenged, so you’re silent, leaning into him, purring like a contented kitten as you make a home in the soft, black hoodie he slipped on in the car.
“Come on, let’s just go up.”
Suguru regards you with a second glance, his dark eyes shadowed, even though you can feel him trembling against you. “Sorry, doll, I know you’re cold.”
“Sleepy.”
“Like I said, we’ll talk about this in the morning.” Kento nods the driver off as he walks back to his door, shoving a hand up in a meek goodbye. “You two are on the third floor, room 302. Hatch checked us in earlier. All of your bags–” he stops, yawning when he reaches into his wallet to fish out two key cards. “Everything should be in there. If it’s not, I do not care, do not reach out to me anymore tonight, understand?”
“Sure.” You whisper, taking the keys so Suguru doesn’t have to take his touch away. He places two heavy, electronic cards in your hand, making sure your clumsy fingers have them secured before he pulls away. Not even offering a goodbye – completely dead to the world, he turns around and makes his way through the sliding glass doors, humming as the warmth of wealth washes over his exhausted body. When he turns down the elevator hallway, he gives you two a fleeting look, then turns the other cheek, disappearing behind concrete.
Suguru looks down at you, and you look up at him.
“I know a bar down the street.”
You don’t speak, smaller hand clutching his bicep like he’d pull away and leave you even colder. It’s relatively quiet in front of this hotel, quiet enough for you two to linger. “I’m tired,” you whisper, voice as exhausted as your body. He sighs, turning you around with a strict, familiar hold on your hips.
You settle back into him, slinging your arms around his tight waist, letting them smooth over the small of his back. He pulls you into a bear hug, kissing the top of your head and humming low in his chest.
“I can fix that.”
-
The night ends just like it started – your back pressed to the cold floor, Suguru slumped in on himself as he sniffs off the hotel bathroom counter. Something smokes in the ashtray next to him – air vents are blaring, and your head is so completely lost to you at this point. Music pulses from your phone speakers, old songs that you and Suguru love, and though you’re so out of your mind, there’s no place you’d rather be.
Suguru sits up, head hanging between his shoulders as he blinks up at his reflection in the vanity mirror. He’s wrecked – pale skin, red-rimmed, blown eyes. His top lip twitches, and he has to reach up and massage his chin to will it away. Then, he turns to you, smiling when he sees you splayed out on the marble floors. You had lifted your shirt so your bare back could kiss the coolness, now Suguru is standing over you watching the way your chest rises and falls in the harsh light.
Barely audible over the music, Suguru smiles at you and says, “Is my girl in there? Would she still like to get drinks with me?”
“Shut up.” You laugh so softly that it doesn’t even register for him. He watches you tilt your lips up in a smile, and lowers his hand to help you up. “Yeah, there’s nothing I want more right now than shitty liquor.”
“If Nanami sees us… Oh, he’d be so distraught.” Suguru pulls you into another kiss – he always has to have you close enough to kiss. Sure, these drugs behind him are beautiful and sensual, but you are the embodiment of everything he wants, needs, and craves. You are him – glistening, carved stone chipped at by his bare hands. Half alive, out of his mind like this, Suguru sees you for what you are inside and out.
You laugh again, letting him hold and kiss you as you get used to being on your two feet again. His hands wander, squeezing your ass, clawing your back, keeping you anyway he can. Still wrapped up in his outside clothes, your Suguru feels so close.
Smiling into the kiss, you pull away just to memorize the glint in his eyes. Suguru pulls you back, knowing he has you right where he wants you. His big hands press your body close, lips trailing across your jaw, kissing you wherever he can. The room is thick with smoke, and now thick with unresolved tension, making the air in your lungs burn ten times hotter. His touch is light, but so possessive and demanding that it makes you sick with want. He kisses the underside of your jaw, purring when you tilt your head back for easier access.
“Mm, baby, I’ll get carried away.” He muses, lips smushing, kiss wet as he makes his way up your neck – focusing soft, sweet hickeys right above the expanse. “You sexy thing – have no idea what you do to me.”
“I think I have a clue.” In that split second between sanity and unknowing, Suguru takes you by the face and kisses you Holy – touching everywhere, spit trailing down the cut of your lips as you scramble to match his fervor. He’s gripping your waist like you’re about to blow away, fingers digging sacrilegiously into the sweet flesh. The second a moan tumbles from your lips, he pulls away, and still lip-locked, breathing into your mouth, he whispers, praising you into a melted pile of blood and sinew,
“No, you don’t. You just think I love you. Truth being – I need you. Always.”