Chapter Text
June, 1995
(The stage lights blind him. A pair of eyes watches him with an unknown emotion, an incandescent glow, a heavy rhythm. Those eyes belong to hard yet soft, long and slender fingers that move with surprising agility over a black electric guitar. The guitarist's hair is so dark he thinks it might get lost in the night’s shadows, hidden among stage prop alcohol and fake blood. At that moment, no one else exists. For Gojo, in his most squalid misery and despair, seeing that guitarist is undeniable proof that God exists somewhere in the empty sky. His pale blue eyes, made crystalline from so much smoking, anchor themselves in that whirlwind of angry sound—and never wander. Lost and found. Gojo melts into the desert of his gaze until the songs stop and the guitar fades away. Then he remembers that it’s actually a shitty night. Right, he has to get out of the city. Found and lost.)
With a Smiths song dancing on his lips (the one where Morrisey says he deserves to be loved because he’s human), Gojo Satoru stuck out his thumb in the middle of the deserted road. It was exactly four in the morning, thick fog covered him up to the ankles, and he was shivering from the cold—for some damn reason, the early mornings in Chicago had been horribly cold for mid-June. To be honest, he hadn’t had the best night of his life and just needed a stranger’s car to get out of his city.
He had no luggage; his escape was swift and fearful. All he had between his fingers, chapped by the freezing air, was his half-closed guitar case with the clothes he’d salvaged and a few dollars. He didn’t even bother to take off his round sunglasses—he let them slide down the bridge of his nose as he watched the highway lights guiding his silent steps.
Satoru didn’t know enough Smiths songs to pass the time, and he didn’t even like Morrissey that much, so he changed the playlist and began singing that song about loving a German actor. Yes, that one was very good.
Swaying his hips slightly, sunglasses nearly headed to the underworld, he saw two lights approach on the shoulder. He raised his thumb higher, his lips and tongue moving pinkly and frostily in rhythm with the song. Life was more bearable with music in his mouth.
Incredibly, after failing to find a ride since leaving the bar (the bar with the guitarist whose eyes were as empty as the sky), Satoru noticed the minivan decelerate as his lips sang, “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love.”
When the van’s door swung open suddenly, he heard the piano from David Bowie’s Lady Grinning Soul in his mind. Satoru couldn’t hide his surprised sigh when he saw—none other than—the guitarist leaning out the door.
“Hey, blue eyes, need a ride?”
Gojo smiled for the first time in ages.
“I actually need a lot of things, but that’s a damn good start.”
He greeted the driver—a young guy with a bright smile and huge eyes, the kind that seemed to greet the sun. Inside was a small table, two pairs of seats, and a worn mattress in the back currently occupied by a stranger. A woman with dark circles and chains around her neck sat smoking, and Satoru felt under the scrutiny of her tired, almost sad gaze.
He thought that if he liked women, he’d probably already be in love with her. But oh well, the story was slightly different. He chose to sit across from her, circling the small table fixed by the window. He set his guitar case by his cold feet.
“That’s Shoko,” the guitarist’s hoarse, almost melancholic voice said, pointing at the woman. She nodded, crushing her cigarette in a heart-shaped ashtray. “The driver is Haibara, the one sleeping back there is Nanami, I’m Suguru.” Suguru lit a cigarette, sliding down the side of the van. Sitting on the floor, he added, “Your name is…?”
“Satoru.”
“Similar names,” Shoko said in a soft whisper and began to play with her lighter.
Satoru had many qualities—knowing when to stay silent, reciting the bible from memory, singing when everything was falling apart—and one of them was a wild imagination. He couldn’t help picturing Suguru as a rebel, the black sheep of his family (like him), with godlike stamina and a calm yet attractive temperament. The local rock star wandering the streets, unfazed by everything. He hoped, this time, he was right. Satoru had a terrible track record reading people. Sometimes he wished they were like books, so he could decipher their thoughts without speaking. (Foolishly, he thought his book would be all torn and destroyed pages.)
“Why are you alone on the road at 4 a.m.?”
Suguru exhaled smoke, and in that small space, it drifted right into Satoru’s face.
“I had a shitty night, basically.”
Suguru twisted his features, knowing he wouldn’t get more words out of him, somehow.
“We’re heading to New York, just so you know.”
Satoru shrugged.
“I’ve nowhere to go, I don’t care.”
Neither seemed like big talkers. Shoko was falling asleep over the table; Satoru thought it wasn’t time for that yet, so he rested his disheveled head on his hand and watched the dark landscape slide by into the void.
Suguru didn’t stop watching him for a good twenty minutes.
In the tangle of colorless, distorted dreams, Satoru heard conversations he knew he should ignore. They were just loose words in a confused haze, but at least they might help him see if these people were dangerous—and if they were, he didn’t really care.
“Who is this?”
“Satoru.”
“But who is Satoru?”
That was Shoko and the guy who was asleep—Nanami? Satoru was bad with names.
“I don’t know. He was hitchhiking, and Suguru insisted on picking him up. We had no reason to say no, so we didn’t.”
“He’s hurt.” Nanami’s voice was more tired than Shoko’s, almost defeated. Shit, did he arrive at a wrong time? The van’s stale atmosphere screamed that something sad had happened, or was happening.
“I noticed. He's bleeding badly. Suguru just went to buy bandages for the cut on his arm.”
Ah, so they noticed.
It wasn’t hard—with dried blood running down his elbow. That made the air heavier, almost unbearably painful, like slowdive’s Alison.
Satoru had stopped feeling pain a long time ago—but he couldn’t tell them that in his half-sleep. Minutes passed, they felt like hours.
“We're really going to New York? We don’t have a singer.”
Smoke from Shoko’s cigarette.
“Nanami, you know how Suguru is.”
“But who’s gonna sing?”
Footsteps echoed—it was Nanami.
“He asked me, but I have no clue how to hit a note. Haibara sings like shit, you’ve no chance. I guess he’s gonna sing.”
“What a bastard… Mei Mei giving us a great surprise by quitting a date before our New York show.”
“I always hated her. Doesn’t affect me emotionally, but this band’s Suguru’s—and if he’s worried, we all should be.”
Satoru realized he’d come at a bad time.
He let his head wander between the cold table and his frozen feet. He remembered When You Sleep by My Bloody Valentine and thought it would be beautiful to sing it under that rising 6 a.m. sun, where all skies merged into one. Suguru woke him at some point; his first murmur was “when I look at you…”, apparently he’d been singing in his sleep.
“You know you’re bleeding, right?”
Satoru, with sleepy crystalline eyes, nodded.
“Can I help with that?”
He noticed Suguru couldn’t hold his gaze long. He wondered why.
“Yes, of course.”
It was noon and Satoru had a bandage on his arm. It was awkward when the guitarist put it on, because he wasn’t used to calloused and gentle fingers—usually, when touched by other men it was rough and violent. But Suguru’s skin warmth felt too soft, like he genuinely wanted his arm to heal.
“Do you play guitar, Satoru?” Suguru asked suddenly, holding a map of the U.S. and leaning back in the van seat.
“Yes, since I was a kid.”
“I guess it’s important to you. It’s the only thing you have.”
Yeah, well, he was right.
But for now, he didn’t feel like talking about his only salvation or his furtive, desperate escape. The image of the gun in his head and the taste of unknown cock in his mouth was still vivid. He thought brushing his teeth might help stop feeling as sad as those alt songs they’d forbidden him from teenage years. In fact, sadness was the only thing life allowed him.
“It’s the only thing I like doing, to be honest.”
Suguru let out a gentle half-smile. Seeing him was the strangest experience he’d ever had: it felt like a calm face after the storm. (A tranquil face that had endured many tragedies.) But Satoru didn’t know him—or plan to. Since seeing him unexpectedly playing guitar on the worst night of his life, something in his flesh boiled with agony. Something in Satoru’s broken and battered body was seeking a seatbelt. Also, a safe, comfortable seat—maybe padded and with a window view of the sea. Was it too much to ask to be a bit freer?
Suguru didn’t say another word, as if knowing Satoru couldn’t handle talking. That was the second time—terrifying.
“We’ll stop at the next gas station to eat. You can shower if you want—take off the bandages and if you want I’ll rewrap them later. You don’t mind showering at a gas station, right?”
Satoru rested his elbows on the table and just shook his head.
Suguru lent him clothes. Though he had some hidden in his guitar case, they were dirty and tangled. Satoru didn’t want to feel like he was taking advantage, but Suguru insisted so much that he ended up wearing his Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt and black jeans.
“Great band.”
Those were the words left on his lips as he washed his hair under the warm water. Great band. Great band. Since when did saying two words to a stranger make him nervous? Satoru wasn’t good at making friends, probably never wanted to. People simply approached him, talked to him, asked him things—like Suguru. The big difference was that Satoru had just said something without feeling forced.
On autopilot, Satoru began to sing in the shower.
He always sang when he knew he was alone. Megumi taught him everything he knew about music, and he was one of the few who heard him sing with anguish and the emotions filling his troubled soul.
He was singing a song about a city in ashes. It might be his favorite. He’d only known it for a week, but it wasn’t time—it was the intensity and passion that reached his veins.
Because of the water’s splash, he didn’t hear the bathroom door open.
“Wow…”
Suguru couldn’t interrupt Satoru’s quiet singing. That exquisite voice didn’t seem part of his body or physical presence. He could never describe the sparks at his temples or how tightly his calloused fingers pressed the sink.
When Satoru finished, Suguru asked, “Have you ever sung professionally?”
The question surprised Satoru—he thought he was alone. After focusing his pale blue eyes on the wet wall, he shook his head.
“No, only in church.”
“Well, I guess that’s enough.”
“Enough for what?”
Satoru wrapped himself in a towel and stepped out of the stall. Seeing Suguru, he noticed he looked as nervous as a groom about to propose.
Biting his thumbnail and breaking his calm, organized façade, Suguru asked, “Would you like to sing in my band?”
It was the closest thing to a marriage proposal Satoru had ever experienced in his life.
Shoko is the first to say it’s a bad idea.
“We don’t even know him! What if he’s dangerous? No offense.”
Satoru doesn’t take offense—he knows she’s right. But he’s definitely not dangerous.
The second one to object is Nanami.
“We haven’t even heard him sing, Suguru. You can’t just ask someone to join the band without talking to us first.”
Satoru agrees. Has Suguru lost his mind? His bandmates are making valid points.
“I think it’s a good idea!” Haibara chimes in cheerfully. Apparently, they have an important show in four days and not a single decent vocalist.
Of course Satoru gets it—Suguru is desperate.
And Satoru is even more desperate for saying yes.
All the arguing ends when Satoru sings.
It’s magic, and all those adjectives Suguru never said but Satoru knows are there anyway.
Yes. It’s a good idea. It can’t possibly go wrong.
Satoru didn’t know the songs.
“That’s a problem,” Haibara slurped at his milkshake. Nanami glanced sideways. “He’s the vocalist. We have four days and we’re in the middle of nowhere. Suguru, please tell us you have a plan, like always.”
“I do,” Suguru answered, pen tucked behind his ear and a crumpled sheet of paper spread out on the tiny table in the van.
It was five in the afternoon. Satoru hadn’t even been with them for a full day, and somehow he was already the lead singer of this strange band.
He didn’t complain.
He had nowhere else to go—no place to belong.
As Suguru scribbled what looked like nonsense across the yellow sheet, all five of them leaned in close to the table, like it held the secret to life itself.
From there, Satoru could see all of them up close.
Shoko was odd. She smoked like a chimney, her hair smelled like chocolate, and all her clothes were black. She was smoking right then, and some ashes landed on the paper.
Nanami was even odder. His dark circles ruled his face, but they didn’t seem like signs of fatigue—they felt like his soul was worn thin. Satoru was reminded of the neatly combed church boys he used to see as a kid when he looked at Nanami’s blonde side-part.
Haibara was probably the strangest. He smiled too much, asked if Satoru needed anything every twenty minutes, and looked at wounds like they were rare flowers. He also never let go of Nanami—not for more than two seconds. Strangely enough, Nanami didn’t seem to mind. He looked at him with his tired eyes and smiled softly.
And then… Suguru.
“Satoru, for some context—we released our first album independently last year. We were applying to labels to sign a deal, but with Mei Mei gone, that’s probably going to get tricky. Still, we’ve got twenty-six songs. I know there’s no way you’ll learn all of them in four days—or three and a half—but you could try to get the basics of at least four. I was thinking we could do three covers too, songs you already know, that we could quickly adapt to. This is just for the first night. We have two shows in New York: one in Queens, one in Brooklyn. They’re three days apart, so during that time, you’d need to learn at least three more songs. Any questions?”
The first song Satoru ever heard from The Cure, when he was ten, was The Birdmad Girl.
He still thought of it as the first love of his life.
Suguru reminded him of The Birdmad Girl.
The movement of his cold fingers, his voice like the deepest bell in the church tower—it all made Satoru think of Robert Smith. His calm, desperate eyes. His hair always neatly combed but never too far from tangling. The way he looked at Satoru like he was the only man in the world. It all felt like the music Satoru had loved since he was a child.
Suguru’s eyes were nearly swallowed by his skin, so black they seemed to fall into themselves. So different from Satoru’s—it was almost ironic.
Satoru thought about Suguru so much, he stopped listening.
“Satoru.”
Suguru was calling him—it was probably the third or fourth time.
But Satoru couldn’t pull himself out of the nest he’d made in his mind just for Suguru. Only for him, with those dark eyes and sharp nose.
He finally snapped back on the fifth try—when Suguru touched his cheek with one finger, just to check if he was still breathing.
“Satoru? Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Yes. All of it.”
Suguru already knew Satoru wasn’t much of a talker, so he just nodded.
“I have a question,” Satoru said, his bright blue eyes locked only on Suguru. “What’s the name of the band?”
Shoko was the first to make a sound—she burst out laughing, choking on her cigarette smoke. Haibara clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. Nanami’s lips were already curling into a faint smile.
“You seriously agreed to be our lead singer without even knowing the band name?” That was Shoko, in between coughs.
Suguru smiled and shook his head.
“I guess that’s on me, too. The name was Mei Mei’s idea, the former singer’s. Maybe it’s time for a change anyway—fresh start. What do you all think?”
He lit a cigarette and Shoko raised her hand.
“I have a suggestion,” she said. “Brutal Murder.”
“What kind of name is that?” Haibara looked horrified.
Nanami, however, looked like he was genuinely considering it. Satoru laughed quietly, hiding his face in his hands.
Suguru didn’t miss that.
“No, Shoko, we’re not calling ourselves Brutal Murder. Any other suggestions?”
He began tying his hair back, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Satoru couldn’t take his eyes off him.
“I have another one,” Shoko raised her hand again. “Bloodbath.”
“No, Shoko, we are not calling ourselves Bloodbath.”
“The thing is, you guys are all way too boring.”
(Satoru eventually learns the band is currently called Cherry Bomb, which suddenly explains a lot about Mei Mei’s eccentricity. He doesn’t come up with a new name—he doesn’t think it’s his place to. After all, he’s only there by chance.
That afternoon, they pick the songs and Satoru starts practicing. When night falls, Suguru is the one driving the van, the dark sky outside filled with stars and infinite silence. Satoru sleeps on the little table. He doesn’t mind. The other three sleep on the mattress.
Suguru watches Satoru in the rearview mirror,
and doesn’t look away until the highway lights disappear.)