Archive of Our Own

“It’s like you don’t even fucking care anymore!” Kia spits, reaching the peak of her fury. “No, you know what? I’m done. I’m leaving. Find a new bassist to carry your asses, I’m going home!”

She storms out of the room, door slamming raucously in her wake. Giras and Volo sit in silence, quietly stunned.

Eventually, Volo looks to Giras apologetically. “Giras, maybe we should…”

A frown comes over them. Giras rises from their chair, walks over to Volo, places their hands firmly on his shoulders. “We’re not breaking up over this,” they tell him, their low, gravelly voice anchoring him. “We can find someone else. Put out another casting call. I’m not letting you throw this all away ‘cuz one girl walked out on us again.”

Volo sighs. He looks to the side, running away, escaping from their serious, determined gaze for a moment. “Isn’t it… time? It’s been long enough of this.”

“Try it,” they say. “One round of auditions. If you still wanna quit after that, I won’t bitch.”

He knows it won’t be that easy. Giras never folds, not even to him, when they truly want something. If they want to keep playing, they’ll drag him along somehow. Still, being thrown about by their whims is familiar to him, an old role that he slots into well. He can humor them for one day of auditions.

“I’ll give miss Mai a call,” he says with a tired smile, “and have her draw up some flyers for us.”

“Attaboy.” Giras pulls away with a firm, encouraging pat on Volo’s back, softly smiling. It’s a rare genuine smile from them, not a smirk or gloat but an earnest expression of appreciation. They’re on the off-again setting of their on-again-off-again love-affair cycle right now, but it’s still a gesture that brings a sweet twinge to Volo’s heart. He’ll be weak to them forever, he thinks, his oldest friend and staunchest ally.

Giras had been Volo’s only company, for most of his life, growing up in the isolated cliffs of the Celestica Reservation. His parents had been killed before he’d even reached proper awareness, shunted off to live with his aunt in her lonely house on the mountain. She’d never much liked him, clearly out of her depth at the task of raising a child, so he’d often ended up in the care of Giras, the neighbor kid a solid ten years older than him who nevertheless was the only one around with time and energy to spare. They’d always been a bit odd, ever since their youth, the seeds of the strikingly unique person they’d grow to be planted early; but then, so had Volo, so the two of them had always gotten on swimmingly, aside from the usual age-related mismatches that one would expect to well up between a teenager and a grade-schooler.

Due to their age, perhaps, Giras had been pulling Volo along through life long before they formed their band. They’d been a rock of sorts, for him, a home to return to and a friend to confide in. A beacon to guide the way, a sturdy rope to hold him aloft. It hadn’t occurred to Volo to think anything romantic of it for years upon years, until his twenty-first birthday, when their present to him that year had been an open-mouthed kiss. He’d soon after found that Giras, ever his rock and support as a friend, was less… reliable, in matters of romance. Unexpectedly fickle, temperamental and moody, Giras-as-partner was a wholly different beast, the upped intensity of their changing whims quickly proving too much for Volo to keep up with.

So they’d gone in and out, back and forth, many times, over the course of years. They never part bitterly, the underlying bond of their friendship saving them from a true divorcing of paths every time. Eventually, Volo will forget again how hard it is to love Giras, and return to their arms as a lover, and again they’ll drive him away. Neither of them ever change, not enough to break from this cycle. It’s familiar, comforting, that they’ll always be by Volo’s side, ready for him to make another bad decision and try again. Ready for it all to fall apart again, the way it always does, and start the whole thing over from the beginning.

Mai makes a quick turnaround on their casting-call flyers, and it’s a short few days until Volo is sitting in a rented studio fresh and early and only a little existentially miserable about how his day is shaping up. They’ve accumulated a long list of applicants, but not so long that they can’t knock it out in one day, probably. However, by about the fourth audition, Volo is bored nearly to tears.

These people are fine, he guesses, skilled enough at what they do, but none of them have that spark, make him feel anything real the way Kia did, the way Giras does. Maybe it’s a bit much to ask from a gaggle of strangers they rounded up off the street like this, but Volo doesn’t know any other way to evaluate musicians, left with only his heart to rely on even after so many years.

The newest applicant walks in, bass hanging off his hip, with a nervous smile. He’s got long hair, tied neatly up in a high ponytail, and he’s dressed simply in a flannel and jeans—a little too simply, perhaps, but Volo’s not here to nitpick about fashion choices, he’s here to hear music. “Hi,” the applicant says, waving shyly. “I’m, uh, Rei. What do you want me to, uh…?”

Volo waves his hand dismissively. “Solo,” he says, “improvise, anything. Just show us what you can do.”

“Okay!” Rei chirps, nodding firmly. “I’ve just, uh, never done this before. First-time jitters, you know?”

It’s not an impressive sentiment to lead with, and Volo’s not expecting much. A first-timer, a fresh, innocent face like this? He’ll be out of here in moments, probably fumble his fingering and leave crying in shame. At least that might be a little interesting to watch, though, a break from the monotony of lackluster performances and hollow solos.

Rei sucks in a deep breath, his eyes sinking closed, and begins to play. He’s chosen a riff Volo’s never heard before (or maybe this is him improvising?) and at first he tries, perhaps desperately, to write off the emotion stirring in his heart as borne from the novelty of the song. As the solo stretches on, though, it becomes undeniable; he has it. This fresh-faced newbie has exactly the spark Volo’s been yearning for. In stark contrast from the shy fumbling he’d been doing earlier, Rei plucks his bass with confidence, familiarity. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s good at it, even at his young age. It’s like he lives music, breathes it, like he’d come out of the womb with guitar in hand.

The solo ends, Rei’s hands slowing to a halt, and his eyes cracking nervously open. “So, uh, how was—”

“You’re in,” Volo says forcefully, leaning over the table now, pulled to his feet in a fit of wonder. He can feel that he’s gone wide-eyed, red-cheeked, and Rei seems taken aback by it, but it doesn’t matter. He has to have this boy.

“R-really?” Rei looks nervously back at the door. “There’s still like twenty people out there though…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Volo insists, overflowing with conviction. “It’s you.”

He hears Giras snort behind him, can easily envision the snide smile on their face. “He’s a man of his whims, kid,” they amusedly say. “Welcome to the show.”

“W… w-wow! Do you guys have, uh, a c-contract or something, then?”

It’s a shrewd proposal, certainly something someone else has put in his head as a necessity. Volo fumbles his phone out of his pocket, rounding the table to approach Rei. “Just your number will be fine for now!” He breathlessly says. “We meet for practice on Wednesday evenings. I’ll text you the location. If you have a schedule conflict, let us know, and we’ll work around it.”

(Giras snickers lowly, behind him. Volo swallows his protest, keeps his eyes on Rei in lieu of biting back at them for it.)

“J-just like that?!” He’s still lost in his dazzlement, the victory of successfully joining a band. Volo thanks his lucky stars for the cover.

“Of course!” A beaming, confident smile, slotting comfortably back into his stage persona. “We’ll have a nice talk next we meet, okay? Right now I have to send all these other people home.”

“O-oh, yeah, sure!” Rei peeks around Volo to Giras, still slouched lazily in their chair. “Is it okay to just text about it, or did you want us all to have a proper talk with your, uh, friend over there?”

“Giras,” Volo offers with a nod. “My—our drummer.”

Rei’s eyes light up even at that small concession of his presence as a member of the band, and he leaves with an eager wave. When Volo turns back to Giras, they’re wearing a smirk that he’d really like to smack off them, just a little.

“Geez, you fell hard, huh?” They snort. “You look like you wanna eat him for dinner. Reel it in, Vo, you’ll scare the kid.”

They’re right, of course, but Volo can’t just admit that. “It’s no such thing!” He huffs, arms crossed petulantly. “He’s a promising young man with a valuable skill. He’ll be a boon to us both.”

“Mm-hmm. Careful you’re not robbing the cradle, here, Volo.” It’s a crass jab, but it belies a genuine concern. Rei had displayed the skill of an adult when he played, but the fact remains that he has a startlingly youthful mien, is perhaps a bit too short for the age he’s claiming to be.

“Rei’s an adult,” Volo insists. “He can do what he wants.”

“Is he, though?” Giras teases, waggling their eyebrows. “I knew a kid once who loved lying about being 18.” They’re talking about him, of course. Volo, following eagerly after Giras all his life, had been in such a hurry to grow up as a teenager, to prove himself ready for adult responsibilities, adult privileges. It had helped that he’d grown up physically rather fast, reaching his full height midway through high school. Rei has no such advantage, though; he’s small, baby-faced and innocent, and even in the short 20 minutes of his audition hadn’t seemed like the type to lie recreationally like that. If he’s putting up a front, it’s a weak one.

“The auditions weren’t open to minors,” Volo pouts, his last line of defense. Giras rolls their eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. We got the cash to have a secretary checking ID at this gig?”

Wordlessly, Volo grumbles. “Anyway,” Giras goes on, “doesn’t mean we’re home free even if he is. You remember Kia was in her 20s and we still got a month of runaround from Irida first?”

Kia had been a bit of a special case, their second bassist after a disastrous falling-out with the first, onboarded rather last-minute. She was some relation of Giras’s, some oblique connection that Giras hadn’t volunteered and Volo hadn’t pressed them about, and she lived fully under the care of her smotheringly protective older sister. It hadn’t quite escalated to the level where they had to worry about legal threats, but an angry Irida was still something neither Giras nor Volo wanted to deal with, so they’d bent to her demands. Curfew at eight o’clock, no weeknight gigs, things like that. Kia had fully embraced it, always happy to have the attention of her beloved sister, so they’d worked around it until Irida had slowly, gradually, loosened her grip, finally been convinced of the sincerity of her sister’s new friends. Volo isn’t looking forward to starting a process like that again anytime soon. He’ll do it, for Rei, if that’s what it takes, but he won’t like it.

“Well,” Volo ponders, “we should first focus on confirming our suspicions somehow. How might we get ourselves a look at his ID, do you think?”

Giras grins eagerly, leaning forward with excitement for the hatching of a new scheme. “Well, let’s think on it. When d’you get your ID out, as a grown-up? You’ve got bars, nightclubs, and cigs, right?”

It’s a short, concise list, with a clear, easy answer. A bar has too high of a failure potential; Rei could easily duck an order for alcohol into something soft and all-ages, and he doesn’t seem like the type to indulge too freely in the first place, and that’s only if he’s actually 21 and not left somewhere between the two ages of substance-abuse majority. A nightclub presents a similar issue, in that while his ID would have to come out at the door, convincing him to walk up to the door seems Herculean. So, cigarettes. He doesn’t seem like a smoker, either, frankly, but Giras is, and it’d be—not quite trivial, but certainly accomplishable, to have Rei accompany them to a corner store and get “separated” just before making it to the counter to pay.

“You got something?” they ask him expectantly. Volo grins.

“Indeed I do.”

“You got your ID on you, right?” Giras asks Rei as they walk, evening chill settling over the city. “Might need to step out and have you get the goods.”

“O-oh, uh, yeah!” Rei nods up at them with a nervous smile. “It’s in my pocket.”

Giras knows they’re intimidating. It’s a purposely cultivated atmosphere, a wall of thorns grown to ward away the uninteresting and weak of heart. They’re still deciding what they think of Volo’s new project, but for now, they really can’t blame him for being nervous, alone in their presence. They have that kind of effect on people, commonly.

… There’s a bit of reassurance they can deliver him, so they do. “I got cash, though,” they gruffly say, “so don’t worry about paying.”

“Oh, no,” Rei replies brightly, “it’s okay, I have a card!”

Giras snorts. “What, your mommy pay that for you?”

Rei startles, reddening as he looks away with an embarrassed laugh. “Y-yeah, actually. She’s nice like that.”

Interesting. Giras had always had a knack for approaching truths accidentally, uncovering secrets with a casual joke. If Rei’s a mama’s boy, that’s something to know, but it doesn’t mean he’s a bad fit for their band exactly, in itself.

“Don’t use your mother’s money to buy my cigs, kid.” A wry smile. “I must be twice your age.”

Rei swallows, aiming a nervous look up at them. “How old… are you?”

“Old enough,” Giras answers, playing off the question noncommittally. “Anyway, that’s rude to ask people, y’know?”

“Oh! S-sorry.”

Alright, yeah, this kid’s cute. Giras is starting to see how he’s hooked Volo so easily. He’s got charisma, a formidable match against Volo, who is so thoroughly used to being the most charming one in the room. It’s different, though, a different approach, a different breed of charm. It might be the most targeted imaginable attack on Volo’s weak point, when Giras thinks about it.

Volo’s charisma is a purposeful thing, a honed tool, a mask that he puts on freely when needed. It’s been beyond useful for the two of them, going way back, Volo’s exuberant front always covering nicely for Giras’s penchant for sitting in cold, intimidating silence. It’s a hit with the fans, of course, but even before that, when they were just kids messing around, Volo’s quick silver tongue could always be relied on to bail Giras out of trouble.

Rei’s charm, though, is natural. Less refined, but more pure. Animalistic, almost. The endearing appeal of a small, adorable creature that likes you, that wants to follow commands and snuggle up to you and be fawned over and petted. Rei’s cute in the face, sure, but he’s cuter in personality, a genuine sort of sunbeam of a guy, the kind of born sucker that people would still move mountains for. He’d make a great messiah for somebody’s cult.

They’ve reached the door, now, cheaply hung bell ringing hollowly as the pair enter the store. “Alright,” Giras murmurs to Rei, “if I have to go take that call, get me a pack of Camel menthols. Blue package.” It’ll be a bit unsatisfying not to lay eyes on Rei’s ID themself, but Giras will just have to trust in the cashier’s ability to read numbers. When they glance over to the counter, the sap on duty looks to be a young adult in his 20s. Well, that could still go either way, but at least his eyesight probably isn’t failing the way an older man’s would be; the guy isn’t even wearing glasses.

They mill about the store for a bit, Rei chattering as they peruse snacks and drinks and Giras offering their bare minimum in return. It’s important to get him used to that kind of treatment fast, the quiet apathy of what talking to Giras often looks like. To his credit, Rei doesn’t seem to mind. He shines on steadfastly, in his sunbeam way, even as Giras throws him unceremoniously into the deep end.

Eventually, finally, Volo responds to Giras’s text, feeding them the baiting phone ring that they need to excuse themself. “Ohp,” Giras says flatly, “there it is. I’ll be a sec, kid, you go pay. Remember, Camels, blue.” They drop a few bills into Rei’s extended hand and head for the door. This’ll be a nice test for him, too, a simple evaluation of how he follows instructions. It’s not the end of the world if he buys Giras the wrong pack of cigarettes, but it’ll say something about his level of competence.

“How’s he doing?” Volo asks eagerly, the moment Giras’s puffed-up pretenses of business-talk fade away. “What are your thoughts?”

“Kid’s alright,” Giras says noncommittally, with a shrug they know is audible in their tone to Volo on the other side of the line. “He’s a talker. Hasn’t said nothin’ too incriminating, yet. Kinda get why you like him now, though.”

“Really?!” Volo’s pure elation draws a snort from them. He clears his throat in quiet embarrassment. “What exactly do you like about him?” Volo asks carefully, prodding. He’s not the insecure type, far from one to worry about Giras (especially Giras, of all people Giras) stealing his prey, so he’s asking for an honest evaluation here. They chew on the question for a bit.

“He’s… well, he’s really simple. Real clear pool of a human, you can see straight to the bottom. Not like us. It’s nice. Didn’t really know they made ‘em that good, anymore.”

Volo hums thoughtfully. “You been texting him?” Giras goes on, a teasing nudge carrying on their voice. “Better make your move soon, Vo. Kid’s prime real estate.”

“I-I’m working on it!” Volo splutters. “These things are delicate, I’ll have you know!”

“Suuuure.” An indulgent roll of their eyes. Giras doesn’t really have designs on Rei, but if Volo needs a kick in the pants to get moving, they’ll offer it gladly. “You don’t take a bite soon, though, someone’s gonna.”

It’s a loaded statement, a prod at Volo’s ego, a test of how serious he actually is about this. “You… you wouldn’t,” comes Volo’s quiet, low reply. More shaken than they’d thought he’d be. Oh, he’s really serious.

“’Course I would,” they go on brashly, “he’s a gem. And you know you can always get a taste of my sloppy seconds if you want, Vo. Nice deal for the both of us, right?”

“You won’t,” Volo says, stronger, more forceful. The fight’s rising in him; now Giras just needs to direct it properly.

“Mm-hmm. Well, you know what stops me, right? You getting to him first. Get your ass in gear, pretty boy.”

They hear Volo click his tongue, spitefully, through the line, in time with the closer din of Rei exiting the corner store, rattling its rusty bell.

“Oh!” he says. “A-are you not done yet? I can go back in, if you don’t want me to hear—”

“Nah,” Giras responds casually, making a show of covering the receiver, “s’not that important. I’ll wrap it up right now, one sec.” Grandiosely, they chatter, “Well, thanks for your time, sir, it’s been a real treat. I think that’s everything we needed, though, so I’ll get off the line.”

Volo huffs petulantly as his response, and Giras has to choke back a laugh as they hang up the phone. They turn to Rei with that aborted smile still tugging at their face, asking him expectantly, “How’d you do on your homework, kid?”

Rei brightens, rummaging in the plastic bag with determination, and pulls out exactly the right pack of cigarettes. Nice. And the fact that he came out of the store with those successfully should be a nice reassurance to Volo. Someone’s looked at the numbers and come out thinking this kid really is 18. “Camel menthols, blue package! That’s what you said, right?”

“Sure is. Good job.” An eager, pleased smile blooms across Rei’s face as he delivers the cigarettes into Giras’s waiting hand. Maybe they should start having designs on this kid. It’d certainly be easy.

They don’t bother asking if he minds them smoking, cracking into the fresh pack immediately. A little smoke won’t kill him, especially outside in the wind like this. They walk in silence, for a bit, Giras focusing on their smoke and Rei focusing on God-knows-what. They don’t bother to look, even though the answer would surely be clear across his face if they did, open book that he is.

“… How you liking us, kid? Any thoughts?” They’d done a bit of practice tonight already, letting Rei settle in to the rhythm of the band, letting Volo gawk at him from across the room a bit. It’s not the end of it, yet, a few more hours of work baked into the night’s plans, but it must be enough to have gathered an initial impression.

“I-I’m having fun!” Rei says energetically. “You guys are really cool, it’s kind of crazy that someone like me gets to play with you…”

“Someone like you?” Giras leans on the question, pressing hard at Rei’s insecurity. He’ll have to be stripped out of that, for sure. They can manage it. Between Giras and Volo, this kid’ll blossom into something radiant in time.

“Oh, u-um…” Rei hunches down, hiding in his jacket, burying his nose in the scarf he’s put on tonight. “I just, uh, don’t really know what I’m doing yet, you know? You guys have been doing this for a long time, I-I can tell. You’re really good.”

“Mm,” Giras hums, taking a pensive drag of their smoke. “You do know what you’re doing, though. Wouldn’t have caught Volo’s eye like that if you didn’t know what you were doing real good.”

“Really…?” They can feel his wide-eyed, innocent stare, telegraphed up at them. It’s gonna be a project and a half, getting proper confidence into this kid, but they’ll take it on.

“Yup,” Giras says plainly, conclusively, slipping their cigarette into their other hand to place the nearer one solidly on Rei’s shoulder. “We think you’re pretty cool too, for the record.”

Rei chokes on that one, spluttering awkwardly over the compliment. “C-cool?! Me?!”

“Oh, yeah.” They decide to throw Volo a bone, a little thread he can pull at his leisure. “Vo especially. You ain’t noticed him staring at you?”

“S-staring…?”

Giras snickers. Maybe a little more, just for fun. “Sure, sure.” They rub their hand along Rei’s shoulder, friendly. “He’s down bad for you, kid. Easy pickings, if he’s your type.”

“O-oh…!” The sound barely leaves him, a tinny, embarrassed squeak. Giras takes a deep, indulgent pull of their smoke, satisfied in having caused a little productive chaos.

“A-are you,” Rei starts, quiet, “gonna keep calling me ‘kid’ forever…?” Changing the subject, trying to escape the embarrassment. It makes sense.

“What, you wanna graduate to first-name basis already?” He’s not going to get away from Giras’s chaos that easily, of course, them aiming a tease directly at the little crush they can see him growing, building up behind his eyes. They’ll give Volo his turn, his first shot at the kid, but if he falls on his face they won’t be kept from sweeping up the pieces for themself. That puppy-dog appeal of his really is strong. They’re not better than something like that, by any means.

Rei squeaks again, “U-um…”

… Best not to go too hard on him, just yet. “You do know my name, right?” An easy out, a proper escape into an arena Rei can steady himself in.

“Y-yeah!” Rei grabs the lifeline ably, recovering. “You’re Mister—um—Miss—u-uh—”

Oh, that’s cute too. “Mx,” Giras snorts, cutting him one last break. “Y’know, none of the above.”

“Mx Giras,” Rei finishes his sentence with a sigh, looking up to them for encouragement.

“Ding-ding-ding,” Giras drones, waving the dwindling butt of their cigarette in a festive circle. “Nice job, Rei.”

He jolts a little, when they say his name. Giras decides to spare him the embarrassment of bringing it up, because they’re almost back to the little theater they rent out for practice, so it’s almost time to hand him back off to Volo and his dialed-up, smitten charm. To continue the little game of hot potato they’re playing with their cute new bassist.

When Rei and Giras return from the store, there’s a new sort of tension hanging in the air, a prickling awkwardness that Volo doesn’t like too much. He corners Giras quickly, and they beam innocently down at him, which can only mean they’ve been up to mischief. “Well?” He grills them.

“He walked out with the cigs,” Giras says with a shrug. “Corner store’s finest says he’s 18.”

It should be reassurance, a relief from the worry that Rei’s addition to their situation presents some unforeseen danger, but Volo finds the scowl he levels up at Giras only deepening. “What have you—”

“Um,” Rei’s voice cuts across the room, “are we gonna get back to it, now…?”

“Of course!” Volo says brightly, swinging around to face the bassist with his plastic smile already back in place. Giras snorts behind him, incurring just a drop more of Volo’s enmity, to be vented out later.

“Now,” Volo says, excitement bubbling, “we’ve mostly been going over our repertoire as written tonight, but how are you at improvisation?” He can give Giras what for anytime, but only right now can he hear Rei play, hear him really take on his bass, live in the music like he had for those beautiful few minutes at his audition. Teaching Rei the ropes of their usual songs had been fine, but Volo’s heard those licks a million times before, all the thrill wrung out of them for years, even with Rei’s fingers plucking the notes now instead of Kia’s.

“Oh, like ad-libbing?” He looks a little unsure, but not unconfident. The burning anticipation in Volo’s chest stokes higher.

“Yes, exactly!” It’s overflowing, built-up exuberance leaking out of Volo in his too-wide smile, his too-bright eyes. “I didn’t recognize that solo you played at your audition, so I assume you’ve some experience?” (Not that Volo’s an expert on basslines, but there’s a solid few that newbies tend to gravitate to, a handful of familiar songs he’d heard regurgitated more than once on the road to Rei’s turn onstage.)

Rei flushes, smiling awkwardly, and Volo’s heart sings. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he says. “I-I dunno if I’m all that good at it, but I can.”

Not that good at it, he says. Volo knows Rei’s audition was no fluke. Rei takes up his bass, hangs the strap over his shoulder, and in time with the motion Volo picks up his guitar. For the first time in ages, in what must be years by now, the strings feel electric against his fingertips. It’s like he’s fourteen again, the whole world stretching before him as Giras presses a shoplifted guitar into his hands and tells him look, you’d be great at this.

“Let’s start with Lady of the Mire for a jumping-off point,” Giras says authoritatively, settling onto their stool behind the drum set. That’s a good one, one of their faster songs with a strong, intense beat and nice, open verses for riffing off of. A lesser bassist might be intimidated, a fellow greenhorn of Rei’s stripes might cower or falter; but when Volo looks to Rei across the stage, he’s already drawing up from that well of confidence, a cool look of concentration on his face as he nods and waits for the count-in.

Giras drawls the count, and they’re off, drumbeat roaring to life like a pulse to anchor the song. Energy fills the room, rising soundlessly, as they fly through the first verse, the bridge, the chorus—

Rei breaks off from the melody first, carving his own mark into the song in a way that makes Volo’s heart skip. A rivalrous spirit swells within him, a vengeful sort of excitement as he chases Rei’s lead, fingers dancing up and down the neck of his guitar. His gaze is locked on Rei, Rei who isn’t seeing him at all, eyes still firmly closed in focus. It only riles him further, sending Volo to new heights of innovation. If he’s daring enough, clever enough, skilled enough, will that make Rei open his eyes and look at him? It’s all he wants, right now. Look at me. Look at me! Open your eyes, Rei, look at me!

The drumbeat falls away. Volo hardly notices, entangled too deeply in this dance with Rei, this call-and-response. They might’ve reached the end of the song (Giras knows well enough how to improvise, though, how to stretch a few measures of beat into an indefinite backing), or maybe Giras has just gotten tired of humoring their bandmates. Maybe they’re sitting back to enjoy the show. Volo keeps chasing, hunting. Rei keeps responding. It feels like it could go on forever. It should go on forever. He wants it to. There’s nothing in the world more worth doing than this.

Rei slows the tempo, pulling Volo down forcibly from his frenzy. He’s closing the verse, ending the song. Volo doesn’t want to, but fighting the pace Rei had set for him, pushing back against the contribution of his partner in this dance, would be sacrilegious. So, reluctantly, Volo winds down, slowing and lowering to an elegant finish.

Energy lingers in the air, breaths coming heavy. When Rei finally, finally opens his eyes, they’re shining with an expression of disbelieving wonder. Volo feels magnetized to Rei, pulled toward him inexorably. He could kiss him. He wants to. He has to. It’s not the time, yet, not right now—but he will. One day, Volo quietly resolves. Someday soon. In time, he’ll plant his lips on that boy.

… He’s been staring, Volo realizes. He pops his mask back on, his cordial smile. Rei continues to stare at him, though, agape in his wonderment. “What did you think?” Volo asks, still half-breathless, genuine excitement breaking through his poise.

“Th-that was… wow.” Rei shakes his head disbelievingly. “And we’re going to do that… for a crowd?”

“Oh, certainly!” Volo steps closer, grinning, letting the magnet pull him in. “But you really should learn to keep your eyes open, Rei. It’s good crowd-pleasing to make some eye contact.” Selfishly motivated all the way down, but it’s not like it’s a lie, or even bad advice. Surely, in between throwing out glances to the crowd, Rei will find himself looking at Volo. Maybe, when he finally sees how Volo looks at him, he’ll even have trouble pulling himself away.

Rei retreats into a sheepish look, gaze darting to the ground. “Uh, y-yeah, I guess… I’ll work on it.” It’s adorable, Rei swinging back into the shy, inexperienced teenager that he is from the confident and skilled bassist he embodies on the stage. Each new movement of the pendulum only endears Volo more.

“We’ve some time left here tonight, if you’d like to start working on it now?” Volo offers brightly, tilting up his guitar. A solo, another duet, anything. He’ll take anything Rei will play. Rei gawks, though, intimidated by the suggestion in a way that certainly pushes it off the table. Before he even gets his protest out successfully, Volo breaks down into warm laughter. “Yes, yes,” he relents, “that’s too much for you today, I understand. I’ll look forward to seeing what progress you’ve made next week, then.”

Rei sighs, the smile he directs at Volo both appreciative and profoundly embarrassed. “Thanks, Volo.”

“Take care, kid,” Giras drawls from their seat, digging in their pocket for their pack of cigarettes. Rei startles at the reminder of their presence, stands a little straighter as he turns to address them. “Y-yeah! Thanks, Gi—uh, Mx Giras!”

Rei’s turned away now, waving cheerfully on his way out, so Volo lets his expression sour, eyes narrowing with suspicion. He never did get an answer from them about precisely what transpired on their little store trip with Rei. They’re already smiling as he storms over to the drum set, a lazy smirk that Volo knows well.

“And just what are your intentions with our bassist, may I ask?” Volo demands. Giras snorts, rolling their eyes.

“Meant what I said,” they say shortly, plainly. “No more n’ no less. He’s yours for one shot, but if you flub it, I’m making a move.” They lean forward, locking eyes with Volo, their expression lecherously devious. “So make it count, Vo, or you’re gonna have to learn to share.”

Volo grits his teeth, rage roiling in his gut. They’ve never been at odds like this, before, never set their sights on the same person at the same time this way. Giras had always been rather more permissive than Volo when it came to matters of the heart—that was fine; it didn’t affect him. They could take as many lovers as they wanted, as many as they could stomach, as long as he wasn’t stuck as one of them, a mere face among a crowd. Volo’s not one for sharing, though. He nurses a possessive streak that runs deep, an ingrained need to always be the best, the most important, the only. They’ve had discussions about it, but not in a while, having long since come to the conclusion that their positions are truly irreconcilable. It’s not a rational impulse that makes Volo this way, after all; it’s something more primal, something animalistic that he can’t control. It’s not even a flaw, really—between the two of them, Giras is the one who others find strange, not Volo—but having it picked at again, like this, in this situation, is riling him, perhaps excessively.

“Oh, I’ll make it count, alright,” Volo growls. “He’ll be mine. You’ll see.”

Giras’s expression lightens, pulling back to their full height to look down at Volo smugly. “Attaboy,” they say. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

It doesn’t make him feel any better. Giras is honest enough, tends to hold to their word, especially word given to Volo in particular, but they’re also notoriously arbitrary, unpredictable even at the best of times. It’s not even just their actions from now on that are in question; they’ve clearly already appealed to Rei in some way, gotten under his skin, and the mere thought of it makes the anger accumulating in Volo’s stomach sear like acid.

“Tell me what you’ve done,” Volo says lowly, putting forth his utmost to make it sound like anything other than a pout. “What, exactly, have you said to him?”

“What, you want a play-by-play? We’ve been busy in here, y’know, I don’t remember all that shit.”

Volo sucks in air, a frustrated hiss. “You know what I mean! Answer the important part!”

It’s not new, not a new behavior. It’s a bit of a new feeling, though, being this invested in the thing Giras has decided to taunt him about. They usually know better than to poke at real problems, steering clear of any of Volo’s actual insecurities or tender points—not that he has many to be prodded in the first place. It’s like being a child again, the flip-side of the euphoria of Rei reminding him of his passion for music; remembering the crueler Giras of their youth, the jeering older sibling who’d bully him just for fun in an attempt to get him to ‘grow a spine.’

Giras sighs, leaning forward, bending down so their long hair falls around them. They grasp Volo by the shoulders and look meaningfully into his eye, serious. “I didn’t do nothin’ to your kid at the store. If anything, I sent him after you. If he’s got eyes for me, just get him to put ‘em back on you yourself. Alright?”

That’s a warning tone. They’re making a threat. Volo tries to swallow his pride, gazes into their eyes, searching for sincerity. Giras lies, but not to Volo. Giras cheats and steals, but not from Volo. Even when the two of them have nothing else in this world, they have each other.

“… Alright,” he quietly says. Giras nods firmly, releasing him to stand upright again. “… I’m… sorry.”

They look at him with surprise, one eyebrow quirking upward. “Man, don’t say that. ‘S creepy.”

“I’m being serious!” Volo huffs, tucking gratefulness away in the back of his head for an elegantly played return to their baseline. “It was… improper of me, getting so riled over nothing.” He turns away and folds his arms. “I should have known better.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Giras sighs dismissively. “My bad too. Got a little heated.”

Back to rights, just like that. They’re fine. Something like this won’t break the two of them apart, and when—when, surely, surely and inevitably—Volo succeeds at courting Rei, they’ll slot into a new normal, a dynamic just as comfortable as this one, but with a new element attached, a new person incorporated into the intimate workings of their long-endured friendship.

… The thought seizes upon Volo, then, that there’d be nothing technically stopping Giras from making moves on Rei after they’d already gotten together. Or, God forbid, if Rei were moved to infidelity of his own whims—would Giras turn him down? He’s not sure he can say they would. It’s not a good place to venture, a dangerous whim to entertain after they’d just tried so exactingly to reassure him (by means of threat, of course, but that’s simply the way they are), after they’d even apologized, to the greatest extent that they ever do.

He can’t help it, though. It’s bothering him. “Want a smoke?” They offer, nudging against his shoulder. Volo’s a social smoker exclusively; this is another peace offering. It’ll stand out if he refuses, but it’ll stand out more if he accepts and has to hide this line of thinking from Giras the whole way through.

“My apologies,” Volo sighs, “I’m not feeling too well, after all that. Another time.”

“Mm.” They don’t buy it, but he can’t have been seen through completely. Misleading Giras is a nigh-impossible task, even for Volo, but doesn’t need to truly mislead Giras, he just needs to get out of here and exorcise this thought before he returns to their side. Then they can go back to normal, truly normal. The specters of his own insecurity won’t take his oldest friend from him; he won’t allow it.

Volo makes to leave, gathering his belongings, slipping on his coat, and walking away. “… Hey, Vo,” Giras speaks up, voice low, when he’s nearly reached the door. Volo pauses. “You got that look on you like you wanna do something real stupid. Watch yourself, okay?”

… Maybe seen through a bit more than he expected. Volo takes a breath and sighs, deep and pointed. “I will,” he says. “Thank you.”

The drive home to Volo’s apartment is spent actively fighting off rumination, doing his damnedest to focus on the road instead of the doldrums determined to descend upon him over this. It doesn’t really work. It’s late, the darkness requiring some care to navigate, and it’s not so late the streets are empty of traffic, but Volo knows this city well, to the point of instinct. Routes, intersections, light timings; none of it requires much thought or attention. It’s a godsend when he pulls into the parking lot and can finally just let himself suffer for a bit.

Rei and Giras. Giras and Rei. Rei, smitten with the tall and handsome androgynous beauty, the mysterious cornerstone of their band (Volo can’t blame him). Giras, intrigued by the adorable and innocent talent that’s entered their lives with aplomb (Volo can’t blame them, either). Maybe he does need to learn to share. It’d certainly solve this problem quite handily.

Unlocking his door, collapsing facedown onto his bed. It’s not out of the question, exactly, to initiate some sort of heart-to-heart with Giras about this. They’ve been through worse, talked over rougher. The problem, though, is that Volo isn’t just being overly possessive; he’s doubting Giras over this. If he can’t take the word they’ve already given him, how can he be sure something more direct will hold any better?

What’s wrong with him, doubting his oldest friend like this? His most trusted partner, his steadfast ally through the span of his entire life. They wouldn’t do that to him. (Would they?) This boy is driving him crazy. One way or another, this situation needs to resolve, and soon.

Volo rolls onto his side, pulling out his phone. He opens up the message window to Rei’s number. He’s texted Rei a few times already, sparse and businesslike exchanges of where and when to meet. It should be fine if he just jumps into a real conversation, at this point.

“Good evening, Rei! Have you made it home safe?” He sends, burying his face back in the pillow afterward so he doesn’t have to actually observe the time between the sending and Rei’s response.

… The response comes sooner than he’d dared to hope, Volo’s phone dinging with Rei’s message within the minute. “Oh, yeah, I’m home and fine!” A particularly exuberant smiling emote, punctuating the sentence. “What’s up with you? Can’t sleep?”

It’s a beautiful excuse, an able foothold for Volo to worm his way in from. “Oh, sadly so,” he types. (Is Rei really trying to sleep already? It’s not that late. He should really learn to enjoy the night more.) “Would you mind keeping me company, for a bit? I wouldn’t like to keep you up too long, if you’re tired.” It’s practically a platitude, a meaningless assuagement of courtesy that, surely, even naïve, clueless Rei wouldn’t be dense enough to take seriously.

“I don’t mind at all!” Another emote, this one less exuberant and more encouraging. “Sorry I bailed early on practice. Did you and Giras get more done after I left?”

Ugh, no. Don’t remind him of that. “No, we retired early,” Volo types steadfastly. “You were the centerpiece of tonight’s session, after all.” Resolutely, Volo imagines Rei’s response to the tease. Flushed bright red, certainly—would he drop his phone and cover his face? Squeal pathetically in his embarrassment? Kick his legs, maybe, to expend the swell of energy from receiving Volo’s attention?

His phone dings. “C’mon, don’t say something like that!” A blushing emote. He’s really wearing his heart on his sleeve, even over the phone like this. … Which, Volo supposes, isn’t much different from how thoroughly he exposes himself in person. Ever open, ever readable Rei. It really is refreshing. What was it Giras had said? Real clear pool of a human, you can see straight to the bottom. A spot-on assessment.

“It’s only the truth.” Volo lays it on thick, then pausing to consider his follow-up. It’d be best to retreat here, to accumulate some plausible deniability, but he’s trying to rush headfirst into a relationship. There’s probably no time for subtlety of that sort. “We’re quite happy to have you onboard, Rei,” he continues. “Myself in particular.” That’s blatant enough, right? He’ll get the message? It’s so much harder to gauge these things without a face to read. Volo sends it away before he can keep overanalyzing it.

“Oh!” Comes the reply. Volo can imagine it, can practically hear it, the stutter in Rei’s voice as he makes that adorable exclamation. “That’s really nice, ahah, thanks…” Another blushing emote, this one with the depiction of hiding its face. A little more pressure, then. Probably, probably, this whole situation cannot be solved overnight, will not miraculously resolve from one conversation had over one evening. A lack of guaranteed success doesn’t make the whole endeavor pointless, though. Volo’s ultimate goal is to convey to Rei his interest, his sincerity, his desire. Whatever bits and pieces of that will carry on a text can only help to bolster the case of his feelings.

“How are you liking it with us, Rei?” Should he push it? He feels like pushing it. Tonight, this conversation, is about Volo having resolved to push it. Volo types out “With me?” at the end of the message and pauses for a while, staring at it, faltering. After just a few more moments of hesitation, it’s sent off with the rest.

“You know, Giras asked me that same thing! Ahahah…” It’s a little too mysterious, for Rei, no self-exposing emote attached to the message this time. A little peek at what Giras had said to him is useful, though, even if Volo has to try very hard to push down the indignant protest that rises in his gut at the comparison—he’s laying it on thick, here, but of course Giras hadn’t been so smotheringly forward as that in their brief corner store dalliance. Right? He has to believe that. Focus.

“Really, now? And how did you respond?” Volo ventures this message forward with an emote of his own—a simple wink, the construction more archaic than the kind of text-based works of art Rei’s been expressing himself with.

At this juncture, there’s a pause, a longer wait for Rei’s return message than he’s subjected Volo to thus far. Eventually, the notification comes: “Can we call?”

“Of course,” Volo replies, swiftly following it with a press of the dial button. Rei’s quiet, when he answers, voice small and shy as the two exchange their greetings. Eventually, he speaks up.

“… Um… are you hitting on me?”

Volo can’t help but laugh, curling in on himself atop the bedspread to let out a guffaw into the receiver. Rei splutters, protesting, “I-I’m serious! You’ve been really, uh, f-forward about some things, and I—”

“Yes,” Volo replies indulgently, warmly cutting him off. “I’ve been hitting on you quite fiercely, Rei. Thank you for having noticed.”

“Ah—uh—o-oh…!”

 Adorable. Volo lets Rei have his moment, gather his thoughts. He’s tickled enough imagining what the reaction behind that strangled string of surprised noises must look like. Flushed through, certainly, cute round cheeks painted berry-red with fluster.

Eventually, Rei musters enough courage to speak up again, still timid. “… I mean, I thought… I thought you and Giras were already, um…”

The mistaken impression hits Volo’s heart oddly, with the mood he’s worked himself into about Giras tonight. He should be forthcoming, though. There’s no good sense in hiding his history from Rei.

“Sometimes we are,” he says with a sigh, “and sometimes we aren’t. Right now is an ‘aren’t’ period.”

“… Is that… okay…?”

Another mixed reaction, a twisted contradiction of emotions. It’s sweet, that Rei is so worried about the two of them. His innocent concern is endearing. But irritation sparks in the back of Volo’s head regardless, an ingrained response to being misunderstood in this way. It’s not his business, even as the dearly beloved new member of their band. It’s not something he understands, clearly, so he should leave it alone and let the two of them work it out themselves, just as always.

“It’s fine,” Volo says, frustratingly unable to clear the curtness from his tone before he does. He takes a deep breath. “You needn’t concern yourself, truly,” he goes on, this time making it out softer. “They’ve… been made aware, of my interest in you.”

“Oh, w-well, if you say so, I guess…”

This isn’t going right. Volo takes another deep breath, tilting his head to vent it out away from the receiver. “It’s kind of you to worry about us, Rei,” he gently says, “but Giras and I have quite a long history. You’ve hardly scratched the surface of what goes on between us.” A pause lingers, stifling. Volo shatters it steadfastly. “… Besides, you’ve met them for yourself. If they truly had an objection to you, do you think they’d simply stand by and hide it?”

Rei snorts, an embarrassed and incredulous laugh on the tail of it. “Y-yeah, you’re right. Sorry for being, uh, nosy.”

“You’re quite observant, aren’t you?” Volo murmurs. He’d considered, for a moment, letting it stay a mere thought as it passed over him, but it seems a perfect tool to steer the conversation back to romantic overtures, the pursuit of Rei as a lover. Giras’s forward-facing personality is straightforward enough to figure out, the blunt and dismissive foul-mouthed bystander who really can’t be bothered to invest themself in the situation most of the time. And Volo hadn’t masked himself perfectly, over the phone tonight, but Rei had caught onto the root of the problem in a way that feels meaningful. It’s a bit of flattery, but just as much it’s a genuine acknowledgement of Rei’s talents, an expression of respect for his acuity and skill.

“N-nawww,” Rei fawns, squirming away from the compliment, “I’m just trying to be, y’know, polite… Not too dense for you…”

There’s a flaw in that statement, a pointed vulnerability. Volo goes for the throat.

“For me, you say?” He can hear, quietly, through the receiver, Rei choking on his breath.

“L-listen,” Rei says, unsteady but clearly invoking force, “I kind of like you too, okay? But it’s—I mean—I’ve known you for like, two days. Can you slow it down a bit?”

(Several days more had elapsed between Rei’s audition and tonight’s practice session, but Volo doesn’t press the technicality. The fact of how little interaction they’d properly had in that time holds true.)

Frankly, it’s a big ask, for the kind of overwhelming feelings Rei’s been inspiring him since the first strum of his bass. Volo prides himself on his ability to read context, to absorb nuance from a conversation, but he needs something more direct on this one. “How so?” he carefully asks. “I’m not objecting, mind you. I’d simply like to know what about my behavior is bothering you, exactly.”

Rei groans, a rough noise of strain and frustration. “I don’t know, okay?!” he huffs. “Just—just cool it, or I’m gonna f-fucking explode.”

Volo stalls, falling silent. This newest outburst is more assertive than Rei’s come anywhere near being in his presence before. Is this the first time he’s heard him even swear? It really might be. “I’ll do my best,” Volo says dumbly as his mind races off into possibilities. Is Rei—that Rei, the Rei in his band who’s so forthcoming and innocent, so painfully straightforward and earnest—is he hiding a darker side? Even more deeply, more successfully, than Giras or Volo are able to mask themselves?

No—no, surely not. Volo’s fallible on occasion, but nobody can truly mislead Giras. The sweet, readable Rei of thus far has been the truth, undoubtedly—but just as well is this the truth, that he has a limit to be pushed up against, that he can bite when given the right prompt. It’s—Volo swallows, pointedly, and tries to clear the thought from his head. (He wants more of it. He wants so, so much more. The hard edges of Rei, the rough corners of a gem that shines out toward the wider world so soft and smooth—he wants that.)

“… Ugh…” Rei groans again, quietly. “Sorry, Volo. It’s just—I mean—I’ve never—” a sigh cuts through the string of hesitations. “This is really new to me. Just… take it easy, okay? I’m… I mean… ugghhh.”

“How so?” Volo pushes, softly. “I can’t imagine someone like you living a whole life going unadored.”

“Th-that!” Rei splutters, seeming to have lost much of the fire of his last objection. “That kind of thing exactly! S-stop it! You—you just said you would!”

“I said I’d try,” Volo says wryly, delicately. “If I’m to understand why simple flattery is so oppressive to you, I must first understand its mysterious absence in your life to date, when you are so eminently praiseworthy to my eye.”

“Volo!” He can’t help but snicker. “You—you don’t even have an off switch, do you?”

“I must ask your forgiveness,” Volo humbly says, “but I very much don’t.”

Rei grumbles wordlessly to himself, Volo swallowing back a laugh as it carries clear across the line. “… I don’t know what kind of childhood you had,” Rei mutters, (and he doesn’t, he really, truly couldn’t even imagine, so the sentiment tickles Volo to hear) “but people don’t tend to like, y’know… pushovers like me, around here. Girly boys. You get old enough for boys to realize they’re supposed to be men now, and being nice stops being cute and starts being weak.”

“Oh, certainly,” Volo hums, pushing forth sympathy. “You never thought to change your approach? You couldn’t stand to?”

Rei sighs, a weight to it that Volo picks up even over the phone. “Yeah, I couldn’t. Even if they gave me shit for it, I didn’t want to be like… that.” A pause. “… And I mean, sometimes, uh, girls would look at me, and they’d think, oh, this is one of the good ones… um, especially the more kind of, unconventional girls.” (That’s a cute thought, Rei being dragged into a fold of women-loving-women on account of his gentle demeanor, his feminine air.) “… But I’ve never really grabbed the attention of, w-well, a man, like that. Even though I’ve… wanted to.”

It's a nice, clear sketch of Rei’s background, a clarification of his circumstances and intent. A nice way to dress the set of his history.

“Well, you’ve certainly caught mine,” Volo teases, one last thread he can’t help but pull.

“G-god!” Rei splutters. “Lay off!” There’s a tinge of amusement to his tone, though, and when Volo laughs lightly into the receiver, Rei doesn’t object any further.

“I dunno,” Rei sighs, cutting into the pause that’s begun to settle, “it’s nice, I guess, but… I mean, don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate knowing where we stand, it helps a lot. I just don’t think I’m, uh, ready. R-right this minute I’m not, I mean, I just need a little time to—”

“I can wait, Rei,” Volo indulgently says. “Take all the time you need.” It’s not, altogether, too different from his hesitation to open his eyes on stage—a new skill he’s learning, a new vulnerability to reveal in the process. To view his audience, and to be loved.

A shadow remains, though, a scrap of darkness tugging at the corner of Volo’s heart. “… That said,” he quietly continues, “I must ask that you consider yourself… promised to me, until such time as you’re able to give me an answer. Brook no advances from any other.” He’s had any number of chances to discard this line of thinking, but this—if Rei promises, if a man as straightforward and transparent as Rei gives Volo his word—then if he can’t get it off his mind with that, something’s direly wrong.

Rei laughs, kind of disbelievingly, at the advance, but Volo stonewalls, remaining silent. “… Um, okay, sure,” he eventually says. “It’s not like I really had my eye on anyone else, so I guess that’s fine.”

He didn’t?! It’s baffling, leaving Volo stopped short for just a beat too long. He must be—not lying, Rei isn’t a liar, but he must be forgetting, the looming presence of Giras over his head. How could he not be captivated? Volo had seen that look in his eye—that guileless adoration, the sure sign of having fallen under Giras’s spell. He’s wrapped around their finger, and he hasn’t even realized. It wouldn’t be a good idea to bring it to his attention—he’s already given his word, a promise for Volo to rely on, but—the silence has been stretching for much too long now, actually—

“Volo?” Rei speaks up hesitantly. At the same time, overlapping clumsily, it slips out of his mouth, “Not even Giras?” Fuck.

“Oh!” Rei startles quietly. “Well, I, uh… I kinda think I’m n-not even their type, honestly. I think they’d get bored with me. Figured it’s kind of a foregone conclusion… um, especially if they’ve been with you.”

It’s not said disparagingly at all. Rei’s idolizing Volo, placing himself as a distant second in terms of suitability as Giras’s lover. It’s—not wrong of him, necessarily, Volo’s stubborn pride crows, but it still hits the ear wrongly. And he shouldn’t tell Rei what he knows of Giras’s intent just to cheer him up—he really, really shouldn’t, a gesture of momentary comfort with the potential to topple every move he’s made tonight in one stroke, but—

“They’re quite taken with you, actually.” Damn it. There’s something incredibly wrong with him, tonight specifically, to be led by the nose by his impulses this hard. He’s supposed to be better than this, composed and restrained, refined and logical—but something about Rei, about his presence, just uninhibits him. Like he’s gotten drunk on the very atmosphere of a mere conversation with this boy who is so sweet and kind and so, so skilled. It really is a problem. He really has fallen hard.

“Wh—r-really?” This one comes out louder, more energetic as a consequence of being that much more baffled. “But I thought you—I mean, you just—wh-what was—”

“I want you to choose based on our merits and your own desire,” Volo sighs, “whether you’d like better to be with me or them. Of course I’d like very much to have you to myself, but… it wouldn’t be fair, to simply snap you up away from their sight, especially if you’ve your own interest in them.”

That really is the crux of it, isn’t it? It’s up to Rei. Volo can’t control the situation any further than a polite request will get him. No matter how deeply he wants to—so much as thinking that there might be nothing more he can do makes him itch with dissatisfaction. But there isn’t anything, nothing that wouldn’t cross a line, cause other consequences to rain down upon him in an even worse fashion later on. Anything that isn’t too much of a slight against Giras is alternatively too much a slight against Rei, or else it’s—well. Out of ethical consideration, for the sake of practicality.

(… Or it’s Volo learning to share.)

“Um,” Rei pipes up again, his volume nearly back down to a whisper, “then, I mean, c-could I get… um, y-you have their number, right, so…?”

It’s the predictable result. Rei’s excited to delve into the mystery that is Giras. Volo fights off the weight of dread settling into his chest. “Yes, I can give you their number,” he says with a sigh, chagrined. “I’ll warn you now, though, you’d best not bother them until morning; they quite value their beauty sleep.”

“Oh, god,” Rei giggles, “as if they need to get any prettier!” Volo responds with a dry laugh, not quite able to let such a well-aimed joke go starved for a response. “… Listen, Volo,” Rei goes on, quieting once more, “I’m not, uh… this doesn’t mean I picked Giras, okay? I really like you a lot, it’s just that we’ve already, y’know, had a proper conversation, here. I-I got maybe two sentences out to Giras when we went to the store. Really, um… don’t lose hope!”

It’s laughable, but Volo doesn’t feel up to laughing. He really has faltered, slipped too much tonight—he’s being pitied, treated to a round of reassurance by the boy he’s been trying so hard to overwhelm with his charisma. “Thank you, Rei,” he tiredly says, tone dragged down by the weight of both emotional and physical exhaustion. “I’ll text you their number, and then I’ll be retiring to bed. I believe I’ll be able to sleep now.”

“O-okay! Good night, Volo! I… hope you sleep well.”

Incorrigibly sweet, atrociously well-meaning. “Goodnight, Rei.” Volo disconnects the call, composes the text message that spells his doom, and collapses into his pillow as he sends it off.

Rei meets the morning with the scraps of a strange dream swirling around his head. Something about the band, him and Giras and Volo—a dark room—having some sort of fight?—in a bitter, lonely sort of cold—it’s indistinct, already too blurry to really piece together, slipping away like the spill from a glass.

He grabs his phone off the nightstand, unlocks and scrolls to his contacts. Giras. Unadorned, no-nonsense, no picture to accompany the number, no playful emojis to decorate their name.

… If they value their sleep, does that mean they’re still asleep now? Rei is, habitually, an early riser—really, it’s more that he ends up awake early and can’t manage to put himself back to sleep in most of those situations no matter how much he tries, and he’s just learned to work with the flow instead of against it, but the result is the same in the end.

He’ll let it rest, he decides, until it’s more properly mid-morning, or maybe even the ends of it, the final stretch before the chime of noon. Having such a firm-set plan, though, has its drawbacks; it’s kind of all Rei can think of through the morning, noticed easily and worked into a gentle ribbing by his mom. She doesn’t pry, because she’s nice like that, but his pajama shirt comes away with some new grease stains from poorly-handled scoops of breakfast.

10:30 AM. That’s the compromise Rei comes to with himself, after too many hours spent off-kilter from his eager thoughts, made clumsy by anticipation. At the strike of ten he’s already retreating upstairs to his bedroom, because although he’s been rolling words and conversation-starters around in his mind all day, he still hasn’t really congealed any of those threads into a statement, properly.

The start of it is easy. Hi, Giras! I got your number from Volo last night, and… Wait, he hasn’t introduced himself. Hi, Giras! This is Rei! I got your number from Volo last night, wait, is “last night” maybe too descriptive? It couldn’t have been any other time, though, since it was night by the time they left practice. Rei turns over fitfully, wrestling with himself, with the concept of words.

By the time he’s satisfied with his three sentence text, it’s nearing eleven. It reads, Hi, Giras! This is Rei! I got your number from Volo, and I wanted to talk to you one-on-one a little, so good morning! He’s pared it down significantly from a much longer beast of a paragraph, which meandered to places like we haven’t really had *that* much time together and I’m really interested in getting to know you! Just before he sends it off, though, Rei presses a certain essential shortcut button and scrolls briefly through his library of saved kaomoji. This one’s an easy decision; a cheerful wave goes here, for sure!

At 10:53, the message leaves Rei’s phone into the air. At 10:55, he receives Giras’s first response: a curt, short reply, reading only “10mins”. A few minutes later, a second response comes, elaborating: “ring ya”. Rei jolts at that, jerking upright on his bed. A text conversation is one thing, but he’s always had a little trouble psyching himself up for proper phone calls. It sounds like Giras isn’t even willing to give him the pretext of a nonverbal exchange, which is… probably fine, but it makes him a bit nervous.

Those last few minutes fly by, when Rei has the prospect of talking on the phone to prepare himself for. Giras’s call comes sort of right on time, about halfway through the exact minute they’d gestured to. It’d be ridiculous to expect them to call right at the turn of the minute when they’d presumably asked for those 10 minutes for a reason, so Rei can’t fault them for it.

“H-hello?” he answers, as brightly as he can but still unable to keep from cracking a little.

“Hey, kid,” Giras’s voice filters through, low and rumbling with the lingering residue of sleep. “Mornin’. What’s up?”

Despite the clarity of vision Rei had thought he’d had before the call actually connected, he finds himself struggling. “Um, can I ask, actually, wh-why you didn’t wanna text me? It’s not a problem, really, I just, um—”

“Ugh,” Giras grumbles, “you’re fine, kid, it’s my own shit. I got…” they take a breath and sigh irately, “got big hands, y’know? Ain’t used to finessin’ words outta tiny screens, no matter how long I go at it. Hell, I play the instrument you whack with sticks. Leave the fancy fingerplay to Vo, he’s better at it.”

“Oh, I see!” Rei swallows down all the helpful suggestions his mind jumps to. Giras isn’t stupid, and the cell phone is an old enough invention that surely anything he’s thinking of after two seconds they’ve already run through and tried. The last thing he wants is to condescend to them.

“… So what’d you want from me? You said chat, or whatever, but it’s somethin’ else, isn’t it?”

Oh, that’s uncanny. Rei swallows, trying desperately to put a lid on the fluster overwhelming him. “W-well, I got your number from Volo, and um—I mean, of course I did, ahah, I told you that already—uh, but we were kind of talking last night, about… our future. Together.”

“Together, huh?” Giras drawls. “Band’s future? Or you n’ him?”

Rei takes a steadying breath. “… Me and him.”

A pause drags out. After about half a minute of silence, (probably, it’s not like he’s counting) Rei hears Giras inhale, and they growl, “That dumbass!”

“Wh—h-huh?”

“Listen, kid,” they say lowly, with a focused seriousness Rei’s not sure he’s heard them affect before, “did Vo fumble you? He ask you out and you said no?”

“Um,” Rei flounders, “n-no, we were talking about—”

“Ugh!” Giras cuts Rei off, in the middle of his sentence, with a harsh, wordless shout of frustration. He’s stunned right into silence, only able to strain his ear to the receiver as they, presumably, throw their phone down and begin to rave, the indistinct sound of some very cross and extremely vulgar monologue reaching Rei vaguely. After some time, the mic ruffles with the sound of the phone being picked back up, and Giras is in his ear again, sighing. “Sorry, kid. Not your fault, I swear, he’s just—that ain’t what the goddamn deal was—”

“… Deal…?” Rei says quietly, cautiously. Giras groans again, although they don’t throw their phone back down.

“Yeah, deal,” they say, clearly irritated. “Kid, you—you’re enough of a catch that we’re both lookin’ at you, y’know? But Vo, he’s—I mean, it was up to me, I’d have you both.” Naked hunger creeps into their tone, smothering. “Hangin’ off my side together like the prettiest baubles you ever saw in your—” They halt awkwardly and clear their throat. “Uh, sorry. Anyway, it was up to me, we’d be hunky-dory all happy throuple. For days by now, I bet. Vo ain’t got the attitude for that, though, so I struck that asshole a deal, that I’d let him take a shot at you, and I’d hold off ‘til after. An’ here he is pointin’ you at me before he’s even stepped up to the damn plate. What a joke.”

“Huh…” Rei replies softly, almost a sigh. It’s a little overwhelming, the idea that he’d been so attractive to not just Volo but also Giras, to both of them, that they’d been bargaining over his romantic availability in secret, behind his back. “… He’s that bad?” It’s the only thing he can think to ask. It sounds nice, it sounds almost heavenly, the idea of a three-way relationship between the whole of their band.

Giras clicks their tongue scornfully. “Sure fuckin’ is,” they gripe. “Every time he comes back and wants to love on ol’ Giras s’more, you know when he ends up bailin’? Right when I pick up a third. Every damn time. Said last time that I gotta cut it off if I wanna do that when he’s around, even though it’s his dumbass problem.”

It’s… surprising doesn’t feel like a strong enough word. It’s almost paradigm-shifting, to be just barely talking to Giras and they’re already venting out the most intimate details of their life, secrets and history that Volo would surely find beyond embarrassing to tell himself. A very particular and stark contrast makes itself clear between Volo and Giras as people right then; Volo has a deep and eminent pride in appearances, but Giras doesn’t care for propriety one bit. If they want to say it, they’ll say it, consequences be damned. Volo can be tripped up, thrown off his game, but Giras will roll right on into whatever mood they’re seized by. (And that’s something Rei wants to see more of, he decides, since his little taste of it last night. Volo on the back foot, Volo outplayed and pushed down and bested until he can’t remember how to turn on his charm like always, his effortless charisma slapped right out of his hands. He has to imagine Giras agrees with him on something like that, but it’s… probably too forward to bring it up to them on the spot right now.)

“Sounds like it sucks,” Rei quietly says, closing Giras’s monologue with some token reassurance. Giras snorts.

“Don’t gimme that, kid. I don’t need pity from you.” They take a breath and release another long sigh. “Selfish fuckin’ brat, that guy. Wonder who raised him like that?” They say it with laughter underscoring, a sardonic chuckle pinned onto the end. Some dots connect, in the back of Rei’s head, a line from Volo echoing in from last night: Giras and I have quite a long history.

“You’ve known Volo for a long time, huh?” he asks softly. “He sort of implied that, but I didn’t ask him how far back it went.”

“Yup,” Giras says, “since he was a rugrat and I was a piece of shit kid. Back home, I was the closest thing he had to a mommy, since Auntie Cogita didn’t ever want nothin’ to do with him. Well, neither did the rest of those assholes, so it was just him and me, for a long ass time. Eventually we grew up and got outta there, n’ then more eventually we ended up here.”

“Oh… I… had no idea.” (And he was mouthing off to Volo, someone with a childhood like that, about his school-age bullies last night. He should be smote dead for that kind of presumptuous egotism.)

Giras snorts again, amused. “’Course you didn’t,” they say. “Nobody could fuckin’ guess the kinda shit we’ve been through. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

Another silence, but it feels much more comfortable this time. Maybe Rei couldn’t manage to reassure Giras, but he hasn’t missed that Giras just tried to reassure him. It doesn’t quite fit with their image as an indifferent and foul-mouthed mystery, and the incongruity stands out in a way that feels meaningful.

Rei’s mind continues spinning on in the pause, though, hacking away at the issue presented by three people who all like each other and one of them who’ll only take a single partner. They can solve it somehow, can’t they? There has to be a way where this turns out well, a nice result for everyone involved instead of the more apparent solution of them simply having to pick a favorite and sacrifice the third left behind to find love elsewhere.

“… Hey, Giras? Can I, uh, hatch a little scheme with you?”

Rei thinks he can hear them gasp, quietly, through the phone. “Yeah?!” they say, eager and excited. (It’s… it’s adorable.) “Didn’t think you were the type, kid! Whatcha got in mind?”

Things settle into a routine, of a sort. Volo can’t help but notice Giras and Rei convening in the corner of the room sometimes, and feel a pang of jealous fear, but if that’s the way it’s going, he has no right to disrupt it. He’d already relinquished control, quite formally. He can’t grab for it back now.

Rei requests an uptick in their practice schedule, and Volo obliges. Three days out of the week, now, Monday-Wednesday-Friday, they while away their night in the old theatre that doesn’t put on enough shows to have objected to their request for more evening availability. And it’s still so beautiful, so lovely, to hear him play, to see him lost in the music. He really has been working on keeping his eyes open, although progress is slow and minuscule. Monday of the first week, Volo catches his eyelids shiver a few times; by Friday of the same, he cracks them properly open just briefly, once or twice. That little shine of grey-blue, it’s captivating, entrancing Volo at the sight, pulling him even deeper into the stream of Rei’s talent washing him so fully away.

At the start of the third week, Mai calls. She’s a bit of a social-media specialist, an informal organizer with a lot of connections; the flyers she’d designed for Volo weren’t just papered up on the streets, but posted all across the internet as well, although with effort to keep to local pages to avoid siren-calling some talented hopeful from miles upon miles away. The call this time, though, is for reasons twofold; she opens with polite chatter, a “How’s the new bassist working out?” Volo gives his best platitudes about the social aspect while sparing no detail on the truth of Rei’s ability. Especially given their kicked-up practice schedule, they’ll be ready for anything in days, if not tomorrow.

“Oh, that’s great!” Mai says, half-laughing with audible relief. “Because I’ve got a good lead on a gig for you guys that just came up! Haven’t done one of those in a while, right? Get back on your feet, show off the new guy!”

“Oh, of course!” Volo bites for the time and place eagerly. Rei’s entrance into his life has been buoying him, stabilizing Volo’s moodiness with his sheer delight at the young bassist’s eminent talent, but he still hungers for the stage as well, a proper show, a venue with a performance to put on and hundreds of watching eyes aimed directly at him. He’s a showman, at heart, and if it hadn’t been music, it’d have surely been something else that allowed him to exercise his flair for drama, his hunger for the admiration of the masses. At the bottom rung, he might’ve even ended up as a common conman, a charismatic crook swindling the denser of passersby out of their savings. It’s a funny thought; maybe he’ll keep that in his back pocket for if he falls on hard times in the future. There’re all sorts of new ways to go about that sort of thing in the information age, too, but he’s not pouncing on it right now even with the benefits so clearly in view because, well, even besides the decent money he makes as a career musician, surely Rei would think much less of him for it. That’s funny, too, to be outsourcing his moral compass to the man he’s currently trying to court. Heaven knows he couldn’t ever have done the same with Giras.

He springs the gig date on Giras and Rei the next night at practice, right as they’re winding down to pack up. Giras rolls their eyes fondly at the expected lack of consultation, (if Volo’s the frontman, it’s fine to leave all the scheduling to him, isn’t it?) but Rei blanches, shrinking back with surprise and visible terror.

“Th-this weekend?” he stutters, fingers trembling around his bass. “Like, th-the Saturday at the end of this week?”

“Yes,” Volo says warmly, beaming, “that Saturday exactly!” He steps toward Rei, closing the distance across the stage between them with his most charming, dazzling smile. “You’re perfectly up to the task, Rei, if you’re concerned about your own performance. You’ve made so much progress! Not just on the music itself, but on your eye contact—three times tonight, I counted!”

“W-well…” His gaze darts away, predictably and adorably sheepish. It really is so cute how he’s still weak to Volo, even given the circumstances. “… I… guess, depending on how many people come…”

“Oh, no,” Volo coos, “don’t tell me you have stage fright! A genius talent like you?!”

“Sh-shut up!” Rei’s been quicker to reach his boiling point lately, the necessary pushing and teasing required to prompt a harsh response that breaks through his innocent manner growing shorter and less as each day goes by. “You know I’m new at this, okay?! Of course I’ve got s-stage fright!”

He can’t help himself. Volo, swept up in the tease, draws closer and pinches Rei’s cheek, an affectionate motion paired with a devious smirk. “Well, we’ve got the rest of this week, haven’t we? Plenty of time to train you out of that little weakness!”

Rei flushes vividly and shoves Volo away, wrenching out a laugh. “It’s not plenty of time, actually, you asshole!” he huffs. “… But I don’t wanna sit around and do nothing about it, I guess, so,” he’d turned away to show his affront at that first move, but now he turns his head just slightly back to Volo, meeting his gaze with trepidation, “what’d you have in mind?”

It warms his heart, to see Rei understanding the situation so well, to already be so in-tune with the way Volo works. Not a doubt in his head that Volo, of all people, already had a plan for this, a scheme coalesced to better them all in one swoop. He really is so observant, such a quick thinker. It’s beautiful.

What Volo has in mind, most availably, is baby steps. Small performances at public places; the parks that dot the city, the parking lot of a particularly lax supermarket, anywhere Volo feels confident enough that a noise ordinance doesn’t touch or at least isn’t enforced around. When Rei objects that it’s probably too cold this late in the year to draw a decent crowd at an outdoor park, Volo can only laugh and tell him Well, isn’t that the point? Rei doesn’t have any counter to it, and folds obediently.

It’s borne from a whim, but Volo chooses first for their baby-stepping exercise the most popular park he knows—the most popular for actual schoolchildren to play at, that is. He has a feeling, somehow, that Rei likes kids, that he’ll feel more at ease around young ones for his first bout of stage-practice. It’s a warm day on their first opportunity, too, not quite unseasonably warm, but merciful enough that there might actually be more than a handful of children stubborn and bored enough to come out to the playset in earnest. (And even if Rei doesn’t have a particular weakness to children as Volo suspects, they remain a wonderful audience for live music, especially rock. A young enough child hasn’t had the presuppositions hammered into them yet to bother hiding their wonder at the sound of a guitar, the shape of a well-made instrument, the excitement of an unexpected event at their park.)

The park’s gazebo has a plain and open view of the playset, which Volo makes use of as the three of them move in and set up; maybe four or five children out in the chill, determinedly crawling over the bright plastic offerings. That’s an admirable count for this time of year, and many of them seem to have parents accompanying, bored adults listlessly dotting the nearby benches around the perimeter, although a few take an active enough role to play along with their young ones. A few of those bored adults, even, are the first to turn their heads toward the quiet commotion the three of them make, the clearly out-of-place activity of their instruments rising from their cases and carriers.

On the way to their drum stool, Giras ruffles Rei’s hair, bringing a warm smile to his face. Volo, not to be outdone, provides his own gesture, a hand on Rei’s shoulder and a gentle murmur of “You’ll do wonderfully, I’m sure.” That one dots his cheeks with real fluster, a little dusting of red, and Volo seizes tight onto the victory in the back of his chest.

Although this is Rei’s first “public” performance, it is as well his first time seeing Volo perform in public, so for the sake of not startling him, Volo tries his best to rein it in. It won’t be fulfilling, he tells himself, to pull out the stops on his showboating for this paltry crowd, this hodge-podge of strangers who don’t even know who they are, who Volo is, they just happen to have been nearby when the music started.

… That said, he’s moved to the impulse easier than ever, in this new arrangement, his enchantment with Rei’s talent breaking through even his most poised live-performance confidence. He hadn’t been sure how much he could expect that to happen, so getting a taste of it when the stakes are this low is good for him, too, a good look into the future in terms of what he’ll need to plan for.

Their crowd accumulates quickly as Volo announces, in faux-MC cadence, their first song, because they hadn’t quite agreed on a hard setlist for this, although Rei had clarified to Volo his favorite and most comfortable tracks among their repertoire. He’s going to try and stick to Rei’s strengths, of course, and he’d reassured the bassist that improvisation for these practice concerts would be only on his own terms, that Volo wouldn’t initiate any new riffs himself—but beyond that, it’s the principles of showmanship that drive him. If he reads a different song in the crowd than they’d planned on, they’ll be playing his read. More formalized gigs tend to demand a hard setlist, so it’s not a chance he gets often, the ability to read a crowd and adapt to it. Rei will manage, he’s sure, and likely even come out stronger for it.

The first song goes exactly as written, Rei predictably not daring to strike out on his own just yet. At the close of it, a smattering of applause from the dozen-or-two bodies gathered to watch. Volo takes a deep, gracious, theatrical bow. To the side, he can hear Rei sheepishly laughing, saying “Th-thanks, everyone!” A glance back to his bassist reveals Rei mostly living in the fluster of the new attention, happily beaming as he blushes—but as Volo keeps watching, his hands on his bass are trembling again. Another one, then—Rei’s a local, made of stern enough stuff that this kind of weather alone can’t chill him to a shiver.

Just before Volo can announce the second track, though, a girl steps forward from the crowd, with dark-green hair tied into twin braids and wide eyes that seem uncannily suited to staring straight into one’s soul, even for a young one of her age. “You did really well, mister,” she says, reaching her mittened hands toward Rei’s. “You don’t need to be scared.”

“Uh,” Rei flounders, sending Volo on alert, “well, thanks, but, I-I—”

Her hands reach his in this moment, knit wool resting softly over Rei’s naked fingers on his bass. She doesn’t say anything else, just continues to look at him, but somehow—it seems to… work? As Volo looks on as inconspicuously as possible, Rei visibly calms down, jittery nerves ebbing away as he continues silently looking this strange little girl in the eyes. After another minute or two, an awkward length of time that feels far too long for good business, but at least nobody else out of the audience seems to have gotten bored enough to leave, Rei’s eyes close gently, contentedly, and he gives the girl a serene nod.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “thanks. I think that helped.”

The mysterious girl flashes him a wide smile, a proper beam that reveals an endearing gap between her teeth, and retreats into the crowd. She doesn’t quite melt away, her presence as an onlooker still plainly identifiable with a bit of effort, but it’s a bit startling how talented she is at hiding in plain sight. What kind of character is this, that they’ve reeled in today?

“Did you know her?” Volo asks Rei lowly, a quick murmur before he steps to the side to address the crowd properly again. With a mysterious smile, Rei shakes his head to the negative. What the hell just happened?

The rest of the set goes unbelievably well, the strange girl’s inexplicable calming effect on Rei persisting firmly through every single song. It sticks in Volo’s head, nagging at him, the need to figure this out, to understand what some child has over him on the field of reassuring his dear bassist—but as the performance draws to a close, Rei strikes out with an improvised line for the first time all day, and Volo loses all his objections in the rush of the chase to follow it. He doesn’t quite discard the mystery, seeking out the girl’s figure in the crowd as he catches his breath after the song ends, but, well—it’s hard to be bothered by anything when he’s in the midst of his play with Rei, the back-and-forth of explosive creativity that drives both of them to new heights. For all that he might have the advantage over Rei in the field of conversation, as a more experienced and confident personality able to manipulate and push him around, on the arena of the stage he’s completely helpless once Rei lets loose a single strum. It might be unnerving, if it didn’t feel so good.

After the song has properly faded away, Volo casts a glance to his bandmates. Giras merely looks bored, but their endurance is monstrous, a bottomless appetite for anything at all as long as they stay entertained by it; Rei, though, is beginning to look winded. When he meets Volo’s eyes, he gives a tense smile, a please help me sort of expression. Volo takes the hint.

“… And that’ll be all from us today!” he picks up in his MC voice. “Thank you all, you’ve been a wonderful crowd! We’ll be packing up now, but do feel free to stay and chat if you’d like.” The gathered crowd gives a hearty mishmash of applause and cheers, a heartwarming show of appreciation from their minuscule audience of about two dozen, but as the musicians turn away to properly take down their setup, the onlookers disperse in short order.

Except for the mittened girl from earlier, who steps forward confidently toward Rei, and who Volo tries again to be very inconspicuous in keeping his eye on.

Rei, ever polite, asks for her name. “My name’s Sabi!” she replies, in the innocent cadence of a normal child of her age. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Rei,” Rei says, seeming to relax even more. Volo finds the inkling from his prior preparations tickling at him; is it children in general, though, or this particular child who seems able to affect him so strongly? “Thanks a lot for earlier, Sabi. You helped me out a bunch.”

“You’re welcome!” she brightly says, with another beaming gap-toothed smile. “You should come and play here again, Rei! Bye-bye!” Rei waves politely as Sabi turns away and runs off back to the playset.

… Upon further thought, that girl hadn’t seemed to have an accompanying adult with her today. Unsupervised, at her age? A little mysterious.

“You take to children well, don’t you?” Volo addresses Rei casually as he hefts his guitar case, choosing to follow this thread instead of bothering him about Sabi.

Rei startles into an embarrassed laugh, although not so severely that he loses his steady grip on his bass as he tucks it into its case. “Uh, yeah, I guess! I have, uh, some little cousins that I used to hang out with a lot. Well, I guess they can’t be so little anymore, I haven’t seen them in years… but it’s really fun, when someone’s that young, y’know? They’re… more straightforward. Usually nice, usually understandable.”

“Oh, indeed,” Volo hums in agreement. The majority of humans read that way to Volo; usually nice, usually understandable, and if they refuse to be kind, there’s always some other vector through which to direct them. Rei, as a straightforward personality himself, must find it relieving to have a rare occasion to be on top, in the way that Volo finds himself so often.

It’s neither here nor there, though. The onlookers have dispersed, and the instruments are now all packed away safe. It’s time to move on to a different activity, to part for the day to be reunited at the turn of another.

Young Sabi’s reassurance doesn’t leave itself impressed on Rei forever, of course, but Volo finds himself a little irked by how drastically he’s improved from the first run at their second makeshift venue, if only because he can’t help attributing it to whatever the hell that was instead of Rei’s own hard work and improvement. It feels condescending of him, but Rei really is that impressionable sometimes, that earnest and malleable until he’s pushed properly to the brink where he’ll begin to assert himself and bite back.

This time, newly, Volo keeps an eye on Rei’s eye contact, the way he would at practice and hadn’t wanted to pressure him with at their first attempt to strengthen his nerve. This time is the supermarket parking lot, off to the side where they won’t be in the path of cars, and where employees within the store will merely hear rather than also see them out there. There remains the risk of an irate manager being riled, but Volo’s done a bit of homework, and unless there’s been an unexpected shift-change, the leadership on call today and at this hour is a woman known for being eminently accommodating, accepting these sorts of unplanned events as “good for business.”

The lack of a static crowd, Volo thinks, is encouraging to Rei’s struggle, his eyes cracking open apprehensively more separate times across that set than he’d ever counted across any multiple-hour session of practice. On a sparse few of his tries, he even manages a smile, a really charming one, a feebly confident expression that makes Volo’s heart skip even as it’s directed outward away from himself entirely. (It gets more and more genuinely confident as he keeps trying; Volo might have to stop watching him soon, if he gets any better, for fear of fumbling his fingering in a fit of fancy.)

On Friday, their last day before the big event, Volo texts Rei in the morning with a proposal: would he rather practice tonight as usual, or hold another small concert to further steel his nerves? Their gig is at night, the band taking later timeslots habitually, but it would surely be too much to practice concert in the morning before the real concert, a waste of Rei’s gathered energy and nerve that he might not be able to recover fully in time for his first true performance. To Volo’s surprise, Rei chooses the practice option, his reply reading, “Nah, I’d rather have a night with just you two, to really get everything straight and cozy. I like you guys, you know!” Naturally, there’s a smiling, winking emote attached. It’s not quite what he expected, but it is so classically Rei, the kind of warm surprise he’s becoming used to even when he can’t always predict what the surprise itself will be.

When night falls and the trio gather at the theatre, their practice session is indeed, as Rei had aptly put it, cozy. It’s nice, it’s really nice, it’s almost too nice—although Rei is the one who is nominally assuaging his nerves here, he ends up dragging Volo down from the brink of more than one little tizzy with a well-timed solo, an invitation into the beauty of his music for another wonderful dance. Always sincere, of course, but hard to parse how intentional; just as Volo’s ability to read Rei is increasing, so too must be Rei’s ability to read Volo in turn. His mask is tight and well-secured, but Rei’s keen eye is sharp, and only growing sharper to the nuances of Volo in particular as time goes by.

And then, all too soon, it’s Saturday evening at the concert venue, a decently sized auditorium with a plentiful parking lot. Volo finds himself tingling with nerves as he walks through the backstage entrance, unable to quite place what they’re sourced from exactly. The anticipation of a new audience after so long of stopgaps and half-measures? Worry for Rei’s sake? … The freedom to really, truly lose himself before the crowd, to unite his craving for the masses’ adoration with his rekindled delight in the act of music itself?

Rei’s there in the dressing room before Volo, to his surprise, although Giras seems not to have shown yet. That’s typical of them, of course, but he hadn’t expected to be beaten to the punch by Rei, who, come to think of it, Volo is still a bit in the dark regarding the transportation system and everyday schedule of.

There’s a look on his face as Volo walks through the door that isn’t quite dire, but is unsettled, certainly. He brightens with eager relief as he spies his bandmate. “H-hi, Volo!” a little tension lingers in his tone. “Boy, am I glad to see you!”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Volo says gratuitously, though his tone is meant to soothe. “Is your mother in attendance tonight? If she was your ride, I’m sure you could’ve appealed to her for comfort—”

Rei chokes, spluttering into embarrassed laughter. “G-god, no way! Are you crazy? I’m not having my mom see—…”

… See what? Surely she must know what Rei’s music, what Rei’s version of Volo’s music, at least sounds like, by now. Something’s afoot here. Volo decides to be a good sport, though, to play fair. Whatever trap Rei is laying for him tonight, he’ll walk into it with confidence.

“Oh, I see,” he hums, not pressing at the trailed-off sentence. “No wonder you were shaken, then, here all by your lonesome.” He moves in, now, slinging an arm around Rei’s shoulders boisterously. “Well, fear not, my dear Rei! Your exemplary frontman has arrived to quell all of your worries.”

That sets him to rights, the second embarrassed laugh that escapes Rei endmarked with a playful shove of Volo out of his personal space. Setting up between just the two guitarists, at a proper venue like this that handles amplifiers and sound design on its own time and manpower, is trivial, barely even a distraction in how little effort it takes, so Volo and Rei while away their pre-show time chattering in the dressing room, seated with their instruments splayed comfortably across their laps.

Giras arrives at exactly their usual cue; at the top of the hour, 30 minutes before their performance is set to begin, a haggard stagehand bursts through the door, panicking about where the fuck is their drummer?! This is a venue Giras and Volo haven’t played at before, and although Volo had tried to head off precisely this kind of confusion as a mercy, it seems his word hadn’t reached this particular sap quite in time. Giras strides in practically on the poor stagehand’s heels, dismissively saying, “I’m right here, dumbass.” Volo stifles a snicker.

The drum set, of course, had come separately from its master, needing to be set up well in advance, requiring more care than the guitarists who could simply pick up and strap on their instruments, connect to their amplifiers with the simple click of a plug. As Giras strolls by, Volo catches the scent of fresh smoke on them; another predictable outcome, the pursuit of their nicotine addiction being more pertinent than either proper timeliness or bothering to socialize idly with their bandmates. That’s Giras, though, exactly as they should be, exactly as Volo loves them.

… That’s an idle thought he hasn’t been visited by in a moment. Volo lets it pass by purposely, refusing to interrogate it when his hit of their adoring fandom is so close at hand.

Soon enough, it’s time for the show, the three of them venturing out onto the stage to a crowd of surely hundreds (but not quite thousands). They’ve been at a bit of an awkward size for a while, in terms of popularity; well-known enough to secure a performance slot like this, a solo event that pulls a sizable audience, but not quite to the scale where they’re picking up openers, necessarily collaborating to keep their crowd entertained and engaged. (It’s not a practice Volo’s keen to start on, either; when the situation truly demands it of him, he’ll fold, but for now, his pride reigns supreme. His band will not be made to pull along some straggler group for the sake of filling time, nor will they be bending the knee to any bigger names in deference.)

Volo scoots his mic stand back a bit, seeking a better vantage point to keep an eye on Rei from. That’s him worrying a bit too much, he’s aware, but he holds a vain hope that Rei might be a little extra reassured by it, comforted knowing that Volo’s watchful eye is hovering over him, that his guitarist has his back even amidst the chaos of a proper stage.

… Well, that’s the plan, at least, a move that Volo goes into the performance intending to follow through on, but… It’s been just a little too long. He’s been weakened to it by absence, the allure of real performance, the pull of the crowd. And then, and then, once he’s worked up the audience into a frenzy, once they’re properly off into their first song, Rei comes in.

He should’ve gotten a headset mic. Next time, for sure, he’ll be requesting that. Volo stays glued to his terribly constricting spot at the mic stand, crooning lyrics mechanically on muscle-memory with his attention pulled forcefully back to Rei. That’s not to say there’s not still skill in his singing, of course, he knows how to put on this show, he knows what his audience came here wanting, but Rei—

… Rei, whose eyes crack open as Volo’s reaching the peak of his longing. Rei, who meets his gaze steadfastly, hardly seeming to waver at all even though Volo knows just the other day he’d been wracked with stage fright, with an earnest performance anxiety he couldn’t have simply been faking, not Rei—Rei, who—Rei, who strides across the stage purposefully now, as he strums, in the middle of the song, drawing nearer with clear intent. Volo’s heart is somersaulting in his chest. They’re at an instrumental break, so thank god he doesn’t have to remember lyrics, doesn’t have to make his mouth form words as his breath catches—

And then it’s his turn, Rei dropping his line quite plainly, fading out with a meaningful look. Volo turns fully away from the mic, sound quality be damned—the last verse isn’t that important, he can spare it—and follows, chases, ravenously, right into Rei’s hands. A surge of cheers from the crowd breaks through the song as Volo steps to the side, letting Rei draw him in. It doesn’t leave him unaffected exactly, the weight of the audience’s eager gazes bolstering Volo’s confidence automatically, but this—it isn’t for them, right now. It isn’t for the crowd, this time. It’s for Rei.

Volo’s a man who’s been known to talk himself up, boldly exaggerate the extent of his own talents, but even by the measure of his own clear personal bias, this might be the best music he’s ever played, the most technical solo he’s ever concocted. And this time, this time, rather than wait for Volo’s line to come to a close, Rei strikes up again in the middle of it, joining him in harmony. It’s beautiful—how dare he—it’s so sweet of him—but this is Volo’s stage, Volo’s precious time in the spotlight—it sounds so wonderful, Rei matching his tempo and rhythms in a way Volo hadn’t thought was possible for a pure improvisation, it’s like they’ve melded together, sharing a mind, one in the same heartbeat—but—but—!!

Suddenly, without warning, the song falls away. The drumline has stopped; Rei lifts his hands from his bass, stalking ever closer, well and truly into Volo’s space, their guitars nearly touching. The crowd isn’t silent, exactly, but they hold their applause, every human present caught in the same held breath.

Contact, the completion of the motion to its clear destination. Rei reaches up, grabs Volo by the hair, and yanks him down to height, attacking him by the lips with a heated breath and an open mouth.

The crowd goes wild, of course, even wilder than they had before, the loudest commotion from their audience of the whole night thus far. It’s so loud, in fact, that Volo finds soon there’s another audio cue he’s missed in the din of it. When Rei pulls off of Volo’s lips, aiming a fierce look at him, a determined and victoriously fiery gaze, a warm arm wraps around Volo from behind—Giras. Giras’s hand crawls up his torso, fingers settling roughly around his chin, tilting Volo awkwardly up toward them. And sure enough, surely, Giras takes their turn on his lips right then, their aggression coming in a wholly different style from Rei’s earnest passion, teeth bared and grip nearly bruising. By the time they’ve had enough, Volo thinks he must be bleeding, a trickle of warmth running down from his bottom lip. It’d better not drip on his guitar. (Carried away on the thought, just briefly, anyway; wouldn’t it be poetic? Romantic, even? The onstage romance between the band’s original founders, encapsulated forever in a little red stain on the precious instrument he uses to exercise his talent.)

“You two,” Volo growls under his breath, shooting dirty glances to each of his bandmates as the crowd continues to cheer and roar. Two smug smiles, one much more devious than the other. Volo takes a breath and steps back in front of the mic stand, slipping back into his MC personage as well as he can after something like that. And that wasn’t even their last song, those little rats, those snakes, throwing him off his game when there’s still work to be done—

Rei strings him along some more in the remainder, and Volo lets himself be led, pulled along inexorably on the beautiful dance they do together, but he holds onto his resentment beneath it. When they’re out of here, when there’s no more prying eyes to stick too far into their business, he’ll—

… They get a hell of an ovation, when the setlist comes to its end and Volo tries to wind down the crowd. He misses, again, the sound of Giras’s approach amid the noise—have they gotten stealthier lately?—and they muscle into his space, taking over the mic. “Ladies and gents, whaddaya think?” they goad the crowd. “Are you folks done yet?! What do you wanna hear from us, right now?!”

Predictably, it draws a shout from the crowd, a burgeoning chant of one particular word: Encore!

That asshole.

Eventually, though, the performance does end, the musicians excused from the stage, the crowd calmed down from their fervor and beginning to clumsily disperse. Rei and Giras make it back to the dressing room before him, greeting him with a matching pair of shit-eating grins. They know what they did, and they’re not sorry.

“You two!” Volo seethes, the adrenaline of the stage still searing faintly in his veins. “What on Earth were you thinking?! This isn’t—this can’t—that’s not right at all!”

“What’s wrong with it?” Rei pipes up first, his smug smile replaced quickly by something more innocent. If he thinks that’s going to get him off of Volo’s shitlist—

“I-I’ve told you!” Volo splutters. “I’ve told both of you! This—I-I’m not meant for more than one other, it’s never worked! And in front of the fans?! They’re going to think—they’re all going to expect—argh!”

“Well, it’s true, ain’t it?” Giras steps forward, resting their arm heavily on Volo’s shoulder. “We all three got the chemistry. An’ I think if you sit down and use your head for a sec, you’ll turn up somethin’ different about this time from all that other shit.”

Volo halts at Giras’s suggestion. (It feels a bit like a leash being tugged, being led about like an overexcited dog.) Something different…? The three of them… that commotion onstage…

“… But I know you two have been convening,” Volo says defeatedly. It can’t merely be that they’ve both focused their attentions on him, right? That’s so… naïve. It’s much too simple. There’s no way it’d hold—

“Bingo,” Giras drawls, and in their very tone Volo can hear that expression of languid satisfaction that he knows from them so well. “You got all broke up about me hittin’ on the kid, so how ‘bout I just hit on you? Solves the problem, don’t it?”

Before Volo can gather his objections, Rei steps in with another blow. “I-I’ve been planning this with Giras for a while, honestly, so if you saw us talking in secret, well… it was probably about that. You don’t have to be jealous, Volo, really.”

Of course it was Rei’s idea. Volo stalls on the spot, slumping and hiding his face in his hands. “You—you two wouldn’t dare lie to me,” he croaks. “I know you fancy each other as more than mere friends. Say it.”

“W-well, of course,” Rei fields this one, his hand extending gently to Volo’s unoccupied shoulder. “We like each other, but, um… I think we like you more.”

… Volo tries. He tries to process it, to believe in it. Could it really be possible? Could it really work out?

“Hey,” Giras’s voice cuts in, slicing through his misery, “I know you’re spiralin’ in there. Quit it.” Gently, they knock the back of his head with their knuckles. It doesn’t quite work like a charm, the way it would if the stakes were any less all-consuming, but it does work. Volo rises from his slump, directing a scowl at his lifelong friend.

“I’m holding you responsible for this,” he says, voice wavering only a bit. “If—if this one doesn’t work out, I’ll never speak to you again. For the rest of our lives, for real this time. M-make it happen.”

Giras grins at him, and at first it’s their usual shit-eater, but as Rei pipes up “Wait, really?!” from the side it softens, becomes genuine.

Volo almost misses it in the clamor of Rei crashing into his side with a tight hug, mashing his lips into Volo’s cheek excitedly, Giras murmuring to him earnestly, “You got it.”