Chapter Text
“- heard of HOMRA-”
“Suoh Mikoto-”
“-it’s so good!”
Reisi tunes out the chatter. He’s used to it, at this point.
He exits the platform on the subway, ignoring the gigantic poster of Suoh Mikoto’s face plastered on the walls.
It’s a strange reminder, honestly, of how differently their lives could have been led. Reisi’s not surprised Suoh is still larger-than-life - he’s always inflamed that kind of madness in people, to charm them into following his every step. That it should translate to becoming a popular boy band is hardly a jump. Reisi has always preferred to be quiet, to be behind the scenes.
In fact, Reisi thinks, if they had never been Kings, their paths never would have crossed.
Sometimes Reisi wonders if it’s all in his head - that fantastically laid out universe, where he had wielded power beyond measure. It all seems so unreal, like an unbelievable power trip, dreamt up by an egomaniac.
And yet - when he had first begun hearing of HOMRA, he’d dismissed it as a mere coincidence. The band had grown, exponentially, especially among disaffected young men, lured by the rock tunes, and impressionable young girls, who found the members attractive. Reisi would hear them being discussed on the radio - the lead singer is a perennial favorite, though the bassist has plenty of fans among the older women. He’d hardly had to follow to learn. They're Japan’s biggest music act, and they were even making waves overseas.
Their songs play in TV commercials, in the end credits of anime and movies, and now, even on the train’s speakers. It seems there’s no escape from HOMRA. Reisi had gotten the biggest shock of his life when he’d first seen the poster for their concert in their school’s announcement corkboard.
The Suoh Mikoto he had heard discussed in passing looked exactly like the Suoh Mikoto of his dreams.
He seemed younger - Reisi would later look him up, and learn that they were again of the same age - but the expression of real apathy was the same. Reisi had almost laughed. Suoh Mikoto looked bored, as usual.
And yet people keep looking up at the posters, sighing or squealing or smiling. Suoh’s influence still casts far and wide, even as a pop star. Reisi shouldn’t have been surprised. That has always been Suoh’s charm.
Sometimes, Reisi wonders if he would remember. If their paths would cross and Suoh’s eyes would light up with recognition. But that seems even more of a farfetched dream than being a King in his previous life. After all, Fushimi Saruhiko doesn’t remember.
Reisi had been shocked when he’d run across the younger student a few weeks back - he’d imagined he had been simply seeing things. He’d been cautious in their few interactions, searching for even the slightest hint in his expressions, and found none. There was nothing to suggest that Reisi’s imaginings were any probable, except for the presence of Yata Misaki.
The two are an inseparable pair, perhaps the way they’d been before Reisi met Fushimi. Fushimi is quieter; still full of barbed insults, but nowhere near the angry, bitter man Reisi had met in HOMRA. The betrayal that Fushimi had harbored in his chest has not happened, and Reisi hopes it never will, not in this lifetime. He can’t deny how happy Fushimi seems with Yata, and he won’t begrudge them for it. He even encourages them to spend more time together.
He tries to be subtle in his machinations too, but clearly Fushimi sees through that. Suspicion always fill his expression, even as he greets him with a vaguely deferential, “Munakata-senpai,” as they cross each other in the hallway in the afternoons.
“Fushimi-kun,” he returns jovially, clapping his hand on his shoulder. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Fushimi isn’t even subtle in his attempt to shrug his shoulder off.
“Oi, Saru - o-oh, Munakata-senpai,” Yata stutters as he nearly collides into them. He glances warily at Fushimi, who just rolls his eyes.
“Yata-kun,” Reisi greets. “You seem particularly energetic today.”
“Well!” Yata brightens up. “Today’s an important day!”
Fushimi clicks his tongue. “Is it someone’s birthday?” Reisi asks, curious.
“Uh - no,” Yata says. “Today’s the release of HOMRA’s new single!”
Of course. Reisi should have known Yata would be a fan.
“They’re dropping it in the next thirty minutes! We have to be ready to listen to it, Saru!” he tugs on his friend’s arm.
Fushimi folds his arms. “You’re going to blow your money again on buying it online?”
“Hey! Their music is worth it!” He glances at Reisi as if for support. Reisi doesn’t particularly know how to respond to that. After all...
“I’ve never heard their music,” he admits, quietly, to Yata. His eyes go promptly wide in disbelief.
“You wouldn’t like it, Munakata-senpai,” Fushimi says instantly, with a click of his tongue.
“Hey!” Yata says. “HOMRA’s music is for everyone!”
Fushimi snorts. “Keep saying that, Misaki.”
But he’s done it now. Yata, determined, stands up and starts to wax poetic about HOMRA. Reisi listens, torn between amusement and confusion. He hasn’t particularly expected to be on the receiving end of such conviction.
“Well,” he says, once Yata is done with his spiel. “That’s - certainly interesting.”
Yata nods eagerly. “They’re releasing their second album this Fall!” He says. “They might even tour. Isn’t that exciting?”
He whips out his phone, scrolling in his iTunes. “You have to hear their latest single,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Oh man, it’s out! Let’s listen!”
He hits play, and the sound starts up on Yata’s phone. There’s a bass intro that has Reisi blinking - he hadn’t expected such a slow, quiet build up.
And then.
Suoh Mikoto’s voice filters through the speakers, perfectly distinguishable even now that it’s been years (dreams?) since he’s last heard of it. The hairs on the back of Reisi’s neck stand from recognition.
It’s a love song, he realizes with a start, as they hit the chorus. Suoh is singing about a lost love. Suoh croons in the chorus, so laughably unlike the person Reisi has in his head that he nearly starts chuckling.
“You like it!” Yata crows, mistaking the smile forming in his mouth for anything other than mirth.
Reisi shakes his head. “It’s rather...entertaining,” he says. It’s true. The sound is catchy, like any manufactured pop noise. How strange that this what Suoh Mikoto is up to now.
Yata’s eyes are bright. “This is amazing,” he breathes reverently, as they hit the bridge of the song. “I bet this is going to top the charts again!” He instantly replays the song once it ends, to Fushimi’s clear displeasure. Reisi, instead, opts to lean in closer, making out the song more clearly.
On the second listen, the song feels both subdued and yet intense, which, now that Reisi thinks about it, describes the contradiction of Suoh Mikoto completely. He can’t deny the pull of it.
Yata sighs, looking almost close to tears as the song ends. “That was so good, wasn’t it, senpai? But oh - you might want to hear their other songs - this is from their first album, No Ash. That’s the one that made it to Top One internationally. Here, this one!”
Yata changes the song, and something loud and bass heavy slams from the speakers. Munakata flinches in surprise.
This, he feels, is more reminiscent of the HOMRA he knows. The sound is angry, fervent, and wild. There’s an undercurrent of danger thrumming in the music; the same way his heart used to pound whenever he would come in contact with the Red King.
It’s electrifying. Reisi barely realizes that Suoh has begun to sing; a low growl that slowly peaks into a heavy roar. He’s left holding his breath, absorbing the music and the lyrics like a man hypnotized, rooted to the spot by Suoh’s voice.
“...you think?” Reisi shakes himself from his reverie to glance up at Yata’s expectant gaze.
For once, Reisi doesn’t feel the need to be circuitous. “I can see the appeal,” he says. The shock is slow to spread on Yata’s face; behind him, Fushimi mirrors the same. The latter, however, breaks into a scowl as Yata pumps his fist in the air.
“I knew you’d see it, Munakata-senpai!” Yata crows, cheering. “Here, this one’s also good -”
And that’s how Reisi spends the entire afternoon listening to Suoh. It’s unfamiliar; having this one-sided conversation with a man he used to be equal with. Reisi’s words have no way of reaching Suoh’s, and perhaps these words aren’t meant for Reisi to hear. They were made for people like Yata, the ones who would follow him wholeheartedly. Reisi’s still a skeptic, even though he can’t deny the power behind Suoh’s words.
Two days after, he goes out and buys their previously released album on a whim. Reisi supposes he can’t help but be mildly impressed at the music they’ve put out into the world.
The songs are each distinctly different from each other; Reisi can sense which ones are more influenced by Suoh, or Kusanagi, or Totsuka. They also have some songs that feel so perfectly balanced; a strange sense of completion emanating from them. Reisi likes those best. The sound feels refined, and utterly riveting. It’s not long after that he can’t stop listening to the music on loop.
He’s not surprised now that they’ve risen to the top so quickly. With something like this, it’s like a King’s power all over again.
There’s the last song in the album - a quiet ballad, unusual to the overall feel. But Reisi likes it for Suoh’s melancholy tone. This time he sings of a dangerous loneliness, one that threatens to overcome him whole. That, it seems, is the closest to the Suoh Mikoto Reisi knows.
He’s almost surprised to realize that he’s been listening to it for almost two months on repeat - his brother even comments on it.
“Are you bothered by the noise?” he asks, concerned, but his brother only shakes his head.
“I like it!” he says. “I hear them on the radio sometimes - quite invigorating, if you ask me!”
Reisi only smiles. He wonders, if there was ever a chance for them to meet, if his brother would like Suoh Mikoto. His family is the easygoing sort - quick to accept and understand, no questions asked. It isn’t a stretch to imagine them welcoming him into their fold.
His mother even buys him a clearfile from the nearby convenience store. “That’s from the band you like so much, right?” she says, beaming. She’d gotten the Totsuka one - Suoh’s had been long sold out; not that Reisi’s been checking. He thanks his mother and gives it to Yata the next day.
Yata thanks him, surprised at the gift. He’s still trying to find Suoh’s clearfile all over the city, much to Fushimi’s annoyance, as he’d been dragged along. A week later, he still has yet to obtain it - but comes out much more victorious.
“Saru won the lottery for the HOMRA’s signing event here in Shizume!” he says, practically bouncing in delight. “We’re definitely going!”
Reisi laughs, familiar with the date and time of that particular event. “You’re skipping class, you mean.” Yata turns red, realizing the implied, and Fushimi rolls his eyes.
“No worries, Yata-kun,” Reisi reassures him. “It’s good to do the things we find important. Education is more than these classroom walls.”
Yata looks touched. “Munakata-senpai!” He cries. “I knew you’d understand!”
Fushimi looks disgruntled. “Keep your voice down, Misaki,” he scolds. He’s eyeing Reisi rather warily. Reisi only flashes him a winning smile.
“We’ll make this up to you!” Yata says. “I promise!”
“You don’t need to,” Reisi reassures him. “Have fun meeting your idol.”
Yata’s eyes are shining. “I will!”
And Reisi has no doubts that Yata will experience the joy he deserves.
As for him - well. He’s not tempted to push his luck. There’s no reason for him to meet Suoh Mikoto at all. Reisi is content with the sound of voice. He has no need for anything else.
--
Mikoto hates autograph signing.
Actually, Mikoto dislikes a lot of things involved with the fame of being in a band. He’d only gone along with the decision to make music because of Totsuka, who’d gotten in his head that he wanted to start a band.
He’d never expected them to get big.
Sometimes he still can’t believe it, but at the same time, he’d been King once upon a time. In retrospect, being part of one of Japan’s famous musical acts hardly seems more difficult.
But on days like this, he’d really rather be lying in bed and resisting the urge to burn everything up in his sight.
Kusanagi chuckles good-naturedly. “Just another hour, Mikoto,” he says. “We’re almost at the end.”
“Thank God.” Mikoto’s hand is close to cramping from signing so much. And so many people keep shrieking and clapping when they see him. Maybe Mikoto should have brought earplugs.
“Now, now, Mikoto-san!” Totsuka chirps, patting him on the back. “We’re here for the fans!” He smiles up at a girl, who holds out the CD for him to sign with reverence.
Mikoto rolls his eyes. He doesn’t really care much for the fans.
He slumps on his chair, half-heartedly scribbling his name on the CD. “Thank you!” the girl chirps. Mikoto doesn’t even manage a smile.
He glances at the next people in line, and the sight makes him lean forward. It’s Yata, excitedly pulling at a reluctant Fushimi. Suoh raises an eyebrow. Yata is in front of Kusanagi, his mouth open, though Suoh can’t hear what he’s saying. He frowns.
“Mikoto-san!” he’s forced to look up at the person in front of him, another girl, except she seems much older. She’s wearing glitter in her eyes, and she looks as wide-eyed as the last. Mikoto doesn’t really want to be distracted, so he just signs the CD and hands it back without a word. The girl looks disappointed as she’s led away, but Mikoto has more important things to focus on. He turns his gaze, and sure enough, Yata has just finished with Totsuka and is walking towards him.
“Mi-Mikoto-san!” Yata bubbles, the tone eerily similar to the girl who just left. His hands are shaking as he hands him the CD. “I’m a huge fan!”
“...Thanks,” Mikoto says, still momentarily nonplussed. He glances at Totsuka and Kusanagi, but there is no sign of recognition in either of their faces. Totsuka has his usual chipper smile on; Kusanagi merely looks civil.
So, nothing. Mikoto sighs inwardly. He wonders if he’s upset. Kusanagi and Totsuka barely believe him, and honestly Mikoto barely believes himself. It feels too impossible; to have been a King, with godly powers in a previous lifetime? And yet, here he is, drawn to his two most important people. That can only be coincidence. But if Mikoto’s being given a second chance to make things right, then he won’t complain.
He takes out his pen. “Your name?” he says.
“Y-Yata Misaki!” Yata says instantly, face going red. Mikoto nods, writing the kanji down, and then, a half-scribbled thank you . He signs it, and then hands it back.
Yata takes the CD with something like reverence. “Thank you!” he says, pressing it close to his chest. “You guys are amazing!” He looks at Totsuka and Kusanagi, eyes bright. “I hope you keep making your music!”
“Thanks, Yata-san!” Totsuka says.
Yata looks like he’ll explode from happiness. Beside him, Fushimi clicks his tongue. The sound snaps Yata out of his trance. “Aaah - Saruhiko!” He says, turning to his friend. “The other CD!”
The guard by their side frowns. “Only one item per ticket, please.”
Saruhiko shrugs. “Told you, Misaki.”
“No, please - can we have another one? It’s for our friend!” Yata pleads.
“It’s the rules,” The guard says, moving to shoo them away. “Next!”
“I’ll sign it,” Mikoto says, before Yata gets pushed off. Everyone looks at him in shock, including his bandmates. He peels himself off his chair, standing to snag the CD hanging loosely from Fushimi’s hand before settling back down. It’s done so fast the guard is only able to cry out a quick, “Suoh-san!” before he scrawls his loopy signature. “Who’s it for?” he says, for formality’s sake.
“Uh -” Yata’s speechless. Slowly, his eyes grow even wider, and he looks like he’s going to burst into tears. “Ahh - thank you so much, Mikoto-san!”
Mikoto shrugs, keeping the pen poised over the cover. “Tell me the name already.”
“Ah - right! Sorry!” Yata rubs his neck in embarrassment. “Please make it out to Munakata Reisi.”
Mikoto nearly drops the pen.
He raises his head up to gaze at Yata. He’s beaming at Mikoto, completely unaware he’s said something certifiably inane. Mikoto glances to his left, where Fushimi is standing with an expression mixed with confusion and annoyance.
Neither of them seem like they’re joking.
“Munakata Reisi?” he repeats.
“Yeah - uh…” Yata scratches his head, and then turns to his friend. “How do you put his name together?”
Fushimi heaves a long suffering sigh, before rattling the kanji to Munakata’s ridiculously pretentious name. Mikoto remembers it easily, from the documents that Gold King would send over to the bar, addressing him as the Blue King. Mikoto never reads them, but Kusanagi would toss them to his side whenever it was an actual summon.
To his surprise, his hands don’t shake as he writes his name down.
“Thank you so much,” Yata says, after he accepts the signed CD.
“All right, move on, please,” the guard says, and herds Yata and Fushimi away from the table. “Next!”
“Wow, Mikoto,” Kusanagi says, as the next person (a high school girl) beelines straight for Totsuka. “Didn’t expect you to do that.”
Mikoto shrugs. He’s still staring at Yata and Fushimi, walking away in the distance. “Do you know what school that uniform is from?” he asks abruptly.
Kusanagi gives him a confused look. “No, why?”
“No reason,” Mikoto mutters. He narrows his eyes, taking in the pattern and color of the plaid.
It’s a long shot, but Mikoto’s not above trying.
--
Reisi is surprised when the following day, Yata practically crashes into him at the hallway, bright and early, eagerly yelling his name.
“You’re not supposed to run in hallways, Yata-kun,” he scolds mildly.
Yata only shakes his head, unbothered. His eyes are wide and frantic as he holds something up with his shaking hands. Reisi blinks at it - it’s the latest HOMRA release. “I bought you his new CD,” Yata says, frenetic, shoving it into Reisi’s face.
Reisi blinks. “You-”
“And got it signed!” Yata adds in delight, voice pitching higher. “He was so nice!”
Reisi glances down at the CD cover; there’s his name, written in perfect kanji, with Suoh’s signature down below.
“Oh,” he says. “Thank you.” Quite frankly, he’s rather overwhelmed by the gesture. He’d never expected this kindness from Yata, of all people.
“Anytime, Munakata-senpai!” Yata flashes him a grin, proud, and taps him on the shoulder before running off again. Reisi smiles, bemused, before pocketing the gift into his shoulder bag.
Reisi waits until he gets home before listening to the new album. The sound has distinctly matured; perhaps to match with the band’s current reputation. The tone is somber, but the sweeping feeling remains. The few love songs are all about heartbreak and loss. Well, it isn’t as if they write their songs, but it still makes Reisi shake his head in amusement. Suoh is the last person he expects to be singing about being lovelorn.
There’s a hubbub of students when Reisi arrives at the school gates the next morning. He makes his way through the throng, slightly curious but mostly unbothered.
Voices are pitched high as he elbows through.
“Oh my gosh it’s really him!”
“I can’t believe this!”
Somehow one of them cuts through. “Munakata.”
Reisi stops mid-step, clutching his school bag on his shoulder. He turns around, looking for the source of the voice.
The students part, and Reisi sees exactly who they’re clustering around.
“Suoh Mikoto?” he manages, mouth falling open.
Suoh is walking straight up at him, unbothered by the throng of people. Reisi steps back in surprise as he stops right in front of him, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Oi,” Suoh says.
Reisi glances at the corner of his eye; the assembled crowd looks just as shocked as he is. He turns his eyes back at Suoh Mikoto, who is staring at him, as if waiting for something. “Um,” Reisi says slowly. “Can I...help you?”
Something in Suoh’s expression flickers. “We have a concert next week,” he says.
At the Tokyo Dome, yes - Reisi is well aware. Tickets are sold out. “I know,” Reisi says, for lack of anything better to say.
Suoh folds his arms. “Are you watching?”
Reisi gapes at him. “Unfortunately, I was unable to secure tickets,” he says. “I think you have another one, at Akiba Dome-” but he barely finishes his sentence before Suoh pulls out three tickets from his pocket.
“Here,” he says, putting it in the breastpocket of Reisi’s uniform. “I’ll see you next week, Munakata,” he says, turning around with a wave.
Reisi watches his retreating back, frozen in place.
--
“He just gave you tickets?” Yata screeches, still staring at the tickets Reisi has put in his hands.
Reisi can’t believe it either. He glances at Fushimi, who is scowling at the tickets like they’re poisonous.
“What did you do during the signing, Yata-kun?” he asks again.
“Nothing!” Yata repeats, waving his hands. “He just grabbed the CD from Saru’s hand, and then he asked for your name! That’s all!”
Reisi frowns. “But he knew who I was,” he says, biting his lip. Had somehow found out where he studied, and presumably waited to see him.
It’s not - impossible, Reisi thinks, that Suoh remembers him. But to go out of his way to look for him seems terribly out of character, if not foolhardy.
But well. Foolhardy is certainly one way to describe Suoh Mikoto.
Reisi shakes his head. If he knows Suoh Mikoto as much as his dreams would lead him to believe, it’s that Suoh wouldn’t go looking for him for no reason.
And yet, here in his hands are three tickets to the most sought after concert in Japan.
He looks up at Yata and Fushimi. “You’ll both come with me, of course,” he says, with a smile.
Yata’s eyes go wide. “O-oh - are you sure, Munakata-senpai?”
Reisi doesn’t believe it’s coincidence that Mikoto gave him three tickets. He’d heard about him from seeing Yata and Fushimi, so he must want to see them there.
“Of course, Yata-kun,” he says. “You got me into HOMRA, after all.” He smiles. “You deserve to have this ticket.”
“Munakata-senpai!” Yata looks like he’s going to burst into tears. Fushimi scowls.
“I’m not a fan,” Fushimi points out.
Munakata smirks at him. “But you’ll still go.”
Fushimi folds his arms. “I’m not going to have fun.” Yata squawks in protest. “We’re going to have the best time, Saruhiko!” he insists. “We have front-row tickets to HOMRA!”
--
Mikoto’s pacing in their trailer, half an hour before the concert starts. It’s unusual for him to feel this unsettled. He notes Kusanagi and Totsuka exchanging worried glances, but neither speak up and confront him about it. For that he’s thankful. There’s no way to explain how he feels right now.
It’s that same burning feeling. Mikoto desperately wants an outlet, to release it all, to let it engulf someone else in flames. Munakata had always been the best at taking it all in. Suddenly all Mikoto wants is to see him, right now.
He has to suffer through being fussed over for his outfit, and checking his microphone, all as the opening act plays.
“Mikoto-san,” Totsuka says, putting his hand on his shoulder. Instantly Mikoto relaxes, the tension seeping out just a bit. “Are you okay?”
“Hnn,” Mikoto grunts. Finally, after what seems to be forever, he hears the lead singer of the opening act thank the crowd, and they’re ushered into position.
They’re on the stage. The lights are annoyingly bright, as usual. He hears Totsuka speaking to the crowd, greeting them. It’s Totsuka’s job to be cordial. Mikoto’s only here to sing. He lets his eyes scan the rows of people standing in front, growing more frustrated with each glasses-wearing person who isn’t the one he’s looking for.
Then he catches him; a little bit to the left, with Yata bouncing beside him. He’s looking straight up at Mikoto, eyes impenetrable behind the reflection of his lenses.
Mikoto feels his throat close up from some unnamed emotion.
“- seeing us tonight! Let’s go, everybody!” Totsuka strums his guitar to the opening riff of one of their more famous songs, and the crowd goes wild. Yata’s jumping up and down, jostling a disgruntled Fushimi to his left.
Munakata’s eyes don’t leave Mikoto’s.
Miraculously, Mikoto doesn’t miss his cue. He leans into his microphone, and gaze set, he starts to sing.
--
Reisi doesn’t know what he’d been expecting.
It’s certainly not this; being swept by the crowd by the sheer exhilaration. Everyone is screaming the words along as Mikoto punctuates each lyric, singing with such raw emotion that the goosebumps on his skin still stay up, even after three straight songs.
The worst is that Mikoto hasn’t taken his eyes off him at all. Reisi can’t breathe under this intense focus. Yet he barely blinks; terrified to break contact. He knows the words by heart; with how many times he’s played the HOMRA CD, he’s surprised it hasn’t started skipping.
And yet he can’t open his mouth to follow Mikoto. That’s not like him at all, he thinks, to parrot the same words. His responses are always his own.
Suoh is the first to look away, called to join Totsuka as they hit the duet at the bridge, moving to share the microphone. Reisi blinks, his lungs finally remembering how to breathe.
After the third song, Mikoto pauses to take a drink. Kusanagi talks to the fervent crowd, but all Reisi can see is the arc of Suoh’s throat as he swallows each mouthful.
“It’s creepy,” he hears Fushimi mutter.
“Eh? What’s that, Saruhiko?” Yata yells, in an effort to be heard above the crowd. Reisi glances at them; Fushimi’s staring straight at him, eyes narrowed.
“Suoh Mikoto has been staring at Munakata-senpai the whole time,” he says.
At least Reisi’s eyes aren’t playing tricks on him, then.
“What?” Yata says, disbelief clear in his features.
“I’m serious,” Fushimi says. He tilts his head at Reisi. “Isn’t that right, Munakata-senpai?”
Reisi lets his eyes flicker back to the stage; Mikoto’s capping the bottle closed, twisting it tight before putting it back down on the floor. Their eyes meet as he bends down.
It happens in a space of barely a second. “Come backstage later,” Suoh mouths at him, before walking back to the microphone. Reisi gapes, blinking repeatedly. Does he really mean that?
“Munakata-senpai?”
Reisi turns his head to Fushimi’s direction. Whatever answer Fushimi is looking for, he gets it from Reisi’s expression, because he clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes.
“Oi, Saru! Munakata-senpai, what’s he saying?” Yata asks, tugging at his sleeve.
Reisi can only shake his head. The music starts up again; the familiar thrill of Kusanagi’s bass line reverberates through the crowd, and people start to scream.
This time, the words find their way to Reisi’s throat.
--
Kusanagi is eyeing him suspiciously. Mikoto ignores him as he wipes his sweat off with a towel. He frowns at his reflection in the mirror, disliking the eyeliner they had forced on him earlier. He’s tempted to rub it off.
“Here.” Totsuka appears by his side, handing him some moist tissues. “It’ll smudge if you do that.”
Mikoto grunts his thank yous as he takes the offered tissues and presses it over his eyes.
“So who’s the lucky guy, huh?” Kusanagi asks offhandedly.
As if to answer Kusanagi’s question, there’s the sound of footsteps, and all three of them turn. The curtain is pushed aside, and Munakata steps inside the holding room.
“Huh,” Totsuka says in an undertone. “I wouldn’t think that’s Mikoto-san’s type.”
Mikoto doesn’t say anything. It would be pointless to deny that Munakata isn’t his type, not in the way Totsuka is implying.
Anyway, Munakata is definitely not his type.
“You came,” he says, eyeing him carefully.
“Yes,” Munakata says, looking slightly bewildered. “I confess, I’m rather confused.” He manages an uncertain smile at Mikoto and his bandmates.
“You’re not the only one,” Kusanagi says, with one raised eyebrow. He glances at Mikoto, who steadfastly refuses his gaze.
As always, Totsuka comes to his rescue. “We’ll leave you two alone!” he chirps, taking Kusanagi by the arm.
Mikoto watches them go, the curtains left in a flurry. Munakata steps aside to let them pass.
The silence becomes evident as soon they’re left alone together. Munakata is watching him like a wary animal. Mikoto shrugs, and settles down on his chair. He snags a bottle of beer, and with a little pause, grabs another one. “Drink?”
“We’re underage,” Munakata informs him, with an eyeroll. He takes it irregardless, and leans against the wall.
Mikoto grins as he pops the bottle off. “Make yourself comfortable, Munakata.” He’d take out a cigarette or two, but their manager prohibits him from smoking on concert nights. It annoys him, but it’s better to avoid fights with the person who’s getting them money. Or at least Kusanagi says so. Mikoto has never been in the business of listening to people in authority.
Munakata is staring at him, disapproval clear from his expression. At least that hasn’t changed. Mikoto gestures to the seat across him. After a moment of hesitation, Munakata primly sits down and takes a sip of his drink.
The silence falls over them once more, but this time more companionable than the first. Mikoto isn’t abashed to stare at Munakata openly; in fact, he takes the chance to drink the sight of him in, without any further distractions. He’s thinner than Mikoto remembers; though he still holds himself in the same regal way - shoulders pushed back, head held high. Even doing something as juvenile as drinking, he exudes grace and confidence.
Mikoto smiles wryly. Yep, same old Munakata.
If Munakata’s bothered by his laser-focused attention, he doesn’t say a thing. He’s gazing back at Mikoto, though with more curiosity than animosity. There is the absence of a smug smile on his lips, which Mikoto is loath to admit makes him look off somehow, like a painting that’s incomplete.
“Why did you invite me here?” Munakata asks, once his beer bottle is halfway empty.
Mikoto shrugs. “Wanted to.” It was strange, to see Munakata as one in the crowd, singing and clapping along with everyone else, when he clearly stood out. Mikoto could see no one else. He’d never been like the rest, Mikoto muses, eyeing Munakata from his view. He doesn’t belong in the faceless masses.
Munakata huffs. “You haven’t changed at all.”
At that, Mikoto sits up. “You remember, then?” His tone is so hopeful even he winces at it.
Munakata purses his lips. “How could I forget,” he says, with a shake of his head. He puts his bottle down on the ground, and leans forward from his seat. “Is that why you came looking for me, Suoh Mikoto?”
Mikoto shrugs. “Even if you can’t remember, I would have still wanted to talk to you.” Just to see, really, how different of a man Munakata Reisi would be. That would have been interesting to know. But this, the knowledge that Munakata also remembers, relieves Mikoto in a way he hadn’t expected. He feels a rush of both nostalgia and belonging. Just like when they were Kings, and no one else had understood how he felt about that Sword hanging over his head.
“I suppose.” Munakata sounds dubious. He takes another sip of his beer bottle, and wrinkles his nose. “I don’t suppose you have something a bit more...smooth to the taste?”
“Didn’t hear you complaining while you were drinking most of it,” Mikoto says, grinning as he stands up.
“It’s impolite to complain after being invited,” Munakata informs him, also pushing himself off his seat.
“Whatever, Munakata,” Mikoto says, taking a step closer to him. It’s strange; if he extends his arm, he can touch him. Know he’s real, and not some messed up dream. “As if that ever stopped you.”
He’s not sure who closes the gap first.