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Rohan Kishibe didn't really hang out in bars. People in them got too friendly, too physical, too involved. Cafés were much more his speed, allowing him access to a lovely little cross-section of society. They were perfect for people-watching, quiet observation, for throwing notes and sketches down in a frenzy while maintaining a comfortable little force field around his table. Safe and undisturbed. And even if someone did happen to notice him or realize that he was drawing them, social contracts insisted that they smile politely and not interfere.
But tonight was slightly different. It was Rohan's first time at this particular terrace café, and he was seated on a balcony overlooking a small courtyard with more tables. It was an especially nice spot that he'd found, with a bird's-eye-view of patrons down below and on the street as well. Without realizing it, he'd spent hours here already, drawing, watching, thinking. And as the afternoon drifted into evening, the mood of the establishment began to change. Fairy lights blinked to life all around the courtyard, and a couple of small speakers were lugged out and placed in a small space along the fencing. A single wooden stool was left standing between them.
Ah – so there was going to be music. Rohan curled his lip slightly at the realization; his quiet atmosphere was about to be disturbed, and people were going to start being raucous. Already he could see throngs of young delinquents filling up the tables and standing-room below. With a sigh, Rohan closed his sketchbook and began to look around for his waitress.
Annoyingly, it appeared that she was currently busy taking drink orders for some of the new arrivals. Rohan slumped back in his seat and drummed his fingers on the table as if willing her to come over, drawing her in by the sheer power of his impatience.
It did not work.
He groaned a bit as he watched her retreat to the inside of the establishment without so much as a glance in his direction. This meant, of course, he'd have to wait a while longer. And, God - the absolute struggle of being subjected to something he didn't want to do!
Sinking into his chair, Rohan glared daggers at the restaurant's little makeshift stage, the thing that was responsible for the shift in atmosphere. As he did so, a young man – Rohan's age, by his approximation – stepped up between the speakers, a guitar slung over his shoulders. He settled onto the stool easily, comfortably, like this was the millionth time he'd done as much. Rohan tilted his head and took in the man's lengths of wavy, purple hair, the curious looking scar that streaked across the left side of his face.
Okay. So the musician was... interesting looking, at least. Rohan folded his arms. Perhaps he could allow this distraction after all.
“Uh,” the guitarist said, tapping the mic to confirm that it was on, “Hello, 815. You're lookin' good tonight.”
Some hoots and hollers from the crowd.
“Thanks! I know, I know, I look good every night.” He strummed a single chord on his guitar, and a few college-aged girls broke out into laughter. Rohan rolled his eyes. “The name's Akira Otoishi, and I'm here to set the mood for your Friday night,” the guitarist went on, beginning to play softly beneath his words. “Whether you're here to have a couple of drinks... blow off some steam after a long week... or find someone to take home.”
Rohan mimed a gag, yet still flipped open his sketchbook and began idly doodling the cheesy guitarist. And strangely, the more Rohan looked, the more intrigued he became. Akira Otoishi was rather tall, and with strong features. Rohan tapped his pencil to his lips for a moment. Yes, he was really quite a striking figure... Huh. He would make a good model for a manga villain. Rohan's hand returned to its fervent sketching.
The first few minutes of Akira's performance were decent enough... Acceptable, Rohan decided. He was playing some high-energy rock music, clearly meant to get the audience amped up (and buying more drinks). His first few songs were covers, which didn't surprise Rohan; real artists didn't play gigs like this. But, to his credit, Akira played skillfully, expertly improvising to make up for the lack of a backing band.
With an annoyed little huff, Rohan begrudgingly acknowledged that okay, yeah... the kid had talent.
And so the artist continued his work, his pencil following the arch of Akira's back, the billow of his jacket, the long lines of his legs in skin-tight pants. Rohan found himself somewhat entranced by the music, pulled into it, bobbing his head along in spite of himself.
Eventually, when the wild applause and high-pitched screaming that followed his latest song faded, Akira laughed and began to adjust his tuning. “Thanks,” he said earnestly into the mic, voice rasping just a bit, strained from the passion he'd poured into the performance so far. “Now that I've got your attention, I'd like to slow things down.” He turned to his panel of guitar pedals, tested out a lower, bassier sound.
Without really thinking about it, Rohan rested his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand, the drawings now forgotten. He was curious to see what came next.
“So...” Akira went on, before taking a swig from his water bottle (and Rohan found himself staring a little too intently at the bob of his Adam's apple.) “If you're here tonight with someone special... or you're building up the courage to talk to that beauty across the room... This one's for you.”
There was a small outburst of applause, and Akira paused dramatically before starting. His hands caressed the neck of his instrument, and he kept his eyes cast down upon it. The chug of the guitar was slower now, quieter, just slightly ramping up as he began to sing: “Dial up my number now... Weaving it through the wire...”
Rohan quirked a brow. The musician's voice was different this time, too. Lower. Nearly a growl. Subconsciously, the artist leaned forward.
All at once, Akira's eyes snapped up to the crowd and he gave a performative jerk of the guitar as he belted out: “Switch me on...” - excited shrieks erupted from the audience - “Turn me up... Don't want it Baudelaire, just glitter lust.”
Rohan sucked in a breath, acutely aware of the shiver that had just shot down his spine, the way every hair on his body was standing on end. Though he knew no one was looking at him (no, all eyes in the house were turned towards this purple-haired stunner) Rohan flushed slightly, embarrassed to have been so overcome by the music. But Akira just made for such a good muse, he reasoned. He could be a terrific character. Rohan wanted to study him.
“Switch me on... Turn me up...” Akira's eyes dragged slowly over the crowd; bedroom eyes that could surely make anyone feel as though they were the ones in the spotlight. “I want to touch you, you're just... made for love.” As he purred this line, his eyes reached Rohan, who felt himself swallow sharply. He swore the guitarist's eyebrow arched a bit, that his lips twitched into a smirk.
Rohan was rooted to the spot. Even at such a distance, those eyes seemed to pin him in place. Shit. This guy really knew how to give a performance.
As Akira slipped into the song's chorus, he mercifully dropped his gaze and Rohan let out the breath he'd been holding in. Fuck it; his interest was officially piqued, and he needed to know more. He wanted to draw the young musician for hours, wanted to obsess over every line of his body, wanted...
Rohan scowled at his own inner monologue before angrily digging his wallet out of his pocket. He slapped some money down on the table, collected his sketchbook, and started heading downstairs to the courtyard. All the while, Akira's voice rolled over him, the music still climbing, climbing in its volume and ferocity.
As Rohan reached the ground floor and stepped into the crowd, the musician transitioned into a guitar solo that had the audience shouting, dancing, clapping. But Rohan just pushed forward as if in a dream, the thudding guitar reverberating in his chest. He watched the guitarist's hands, his biceps, his shoulders; the curtain of hair that swirled around him as he played, a strand or two sticking to his sweat-slick face.
Then Akira opened his eyes and their gazes met once again. Akira turned and took a step in Rohan's direction as he sang, “You know I walk for days... I wanna waste some time. You wanna be so mean... You know I love to watch.” The words dripped from his lips, sultry, and Rohan had the distinct feeling of being the only person in the audience. It was preposterous, of course, but still... his stomach tightened, his skin tingled with electricity.
“I wanna love some more... I'll never be the same. A broken heel, like a heart... I'll never walk again.”
The singer's eyelashes fluttered, but his stare remained fixed on Rohan. All the artist could do was walk ever forward, a ship lead astray by a siren's song, about to crash onto the beach.
Akira licked his lips as he rounded the final chorus of the song, and he struck the last chord particularly hard, finally breaking eye contact as he whipped his hair around him. The crowd went wild. Rohan gasped for breath.
“Thank you, 815,” Akira panted into the microphone, “That's my time. You've been beautiful. I hope you'll treat the next guy as well as you've treated me.” His eyes flickered over to Rohan once more, and with a wink, he was off. The crowd was still screaming and Rohan's mind was racing... He moved to try and catch the guitarist, but was thwarted by the next set of musicians as they moved in to set up. He cursed under his breath and whirled around, fighting through the crowd in the direction he'd seen Akira heading.
He finally broke out of the push of bodies and stumbled into the indoor bar. He looked around helplessly, but there was no long-haired demigod in sight. He spent a few pathetic moments circling the rooms of the bar to no avail, getting more frustrated and embarrassed all the while. After all – what did he think was going to happen if he did get to talk to Akira? What on earth would he even say?
Finally, defeated, Rohan slunk over to the bar. A distracted server walked over to him, drying off a glass. “What'll you have?” she asked.
“Uh. I don't know. Vodka-cranberry,” he grumbled, crossing his arms on the bar. The woman nodded and then paused, doing a double-take and giving him a scrutinizing look. Her eyes widened slightly.
“Oh!”
Rohan furrowed his brow. “Oh?”
“Yeah, um... Hang on a second.” She set down the glass and began to dig through the pocket of her apron. “Ah... So, the guy who was just playing, Otoishi? Um...” She gingerly set a scrap of paper in front of him.
He blinked down at the scrawl of numbers.
The 'XO' at the bottom.
“Yeah...” The server cleared her throat. “He doesn't like to hang around here after he plays, but he's out back having a smoke in the alley. If you want to try and catch him before he leaves.” She raised her eyebrows, sent him a knowing look before turning to help another customer.
Rohan pocketed the paper and raced towards the back exit.