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The buzz around Miyagi’s music scene was that Last Cigarette had a record deal in the works. Everyone who heard one of their many EPs would believe it; everyone who saw them perform knew it. They weren’t groundbreaking in their arrangement or image, but they just put out some solid good goddamn music. They had a presence live – mostly the flash of the lead guitarist, but every member filled out their renovated storefronts or empty lot risers like the drummer filled out his shirts – like they needed a size up. They didn’t put on airs about it, but their fans were ready to see them on a stage they deserved.
Hanamaki Takahiro hovered at the back of the hollowed-out old mechanic’s garage that passed for a concert venue, lukewarm beer in hand, head bobbing. This wasn’t his first time at a Last Cigarette gig – not even his first one at the Autoshop. The band’s manager (and the backup keyboardist) knew him from when he bought CDs, but the band probably couldn’t tell him from a turtle. He mouthed along to the current song behind his beer, watching over the pit in front of the stage (some plywood bolted to old car supports) as the bassist made out with the microphone. He and the lead guitar switched out on vocals as their voices game out in the night. While most of the crowd jumped higher for the lead and his paperwhite smile, Takahiro preferred the bass’s baritone, a croon over a scream. He was harder to hear live, but his tone could slice through Takahiro with or without words.
They were tonight’s closing act, so when the song wrapped up in an electric trill, they screamed something that might be a thanks to the audience, the lead throwing tonight’s bandanna over their heads and hopping down to the waiting girls clutching T-shirts and CDs. Takahiro downed the last of his beer and set it with a waiting cluster of empty bottles, shoving his hands in his pockets and ducking out with the flow of traffic.
He stopped by the manager’s folding table in the front room, laden with Last Cigarette merch. “Hey, Watari.”
The manager beamed. “Hanamaki! Glad to see you, man!” He shoved the money he was bankfacing into his lockbox. “Did you like the set?”
Takahiro nodded. “They’re really getting it together.” He perched on the end of a table, tugging his beanie up his head from its slip. “So, is it true? Is EMI trying to snatch them up?”
Watari sighed. “Trying being the key word. It’s a pretty good deal, but Oikawa’s a damned perfectionist and doesn’t want to sign anything until we get a more permanent lineup.” He shrugged. “I wish him luck. They’re lucky they found Matsukawa, he’s the only human I know who stands a chance at keeping up with those two when they’re on a roll.” He scratched his head with a laugh. “He keeps asking me to do it, but I can barely keep a mic pointed at them to record when they get like that, much less play.”
“Don’t undersell yourself, man, you wouldn’t be that bad.” Takahiro picked up a CD jewel case, reading the track list on the back. “Is this new?”
“Yeah, they’ve been churning out material faster than I can edit ever since the record guy knocked on our door. I’ve got, like, twenty raw tracks waiting on my hard drive.” A handful of hipsters came up to look at the merch, distracting Watari into sales mode. Takahiro cracked open the jewel case to read the lyrics book on the inside, printed on copy paper and hand stapled. Watari had told him that the lyrics were eighty percent the lead, Oikawa, sharp and quick like Watari swore he was. Takahiro had a hard time seeing it past the fangirls and perfect hair, but Watari wasn’t the kind of face that lied. The drummer with the filled-out shirts was the music, while the crooning bassist smoothed off the rough edges left behind by their breakneck process. It sounded like a perfect team – one Takahiro was perfectly happy to watch from a distance.
He traded the CD for a thousand yen note and waved at Watari, who was still fielding customers. He’d see him soon, anyway.
It was a hot night on the dark walk back to his bike, muggy, bugs creaking in the overgrown weeds of the lot. Some of the emptied audience still milled, clumped around the packing bands. Takahiro wove around them, skilled in the art of being unnoticed in public.
“Hey. Pink tips.”
He froze, foot in the air, and looked to the voice, a baritone leaning on the brick back wall, pinpoint of a cigarette spark against a pale face and eggplant eyeliner. The mouth behind the cigarette peeled in a grin. “I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”
Takahiro blinked at the long fingers, smoke filtering between them, the light purple ends on dark curls, the mesh undershirt and leather pants. “Uh. Maybe?”
The cigarette chuckled. “Don’t be shy, I only want to be friends.” He beckoned him closer with an ash flick; Takahiro crept in. “I’ve definitely seen you around, pink.” He leant in to tug at Takahiro’s pink-fringed bangs. Takahiro jerked, eyes wide, but the cigarette just pulled him closer by the hair. “You got a name?”
Takahiro swallowed. “Han- amaki Takahiro.”
The cigarette was tossed away, the orange light on the bassist’s long face snuffing out to just the distant streetlights. “You got a girlfriend with that name, Takahiro?” His heart pounded in his ears – the bassist’s face was so close, sharp angles and long lines, smelling like sweat and tobacco, something burnt, an oppressive heat. He hadn’t let go of Takahiro’s hair after the initial tug, but burrowed deeper, callouses on his scalp. Takahiro gulped.
“Ah – no, no girlfriend?”
The grin split wider. “No boyfriend?” Uh-oh.
“Can- can you let go of me, please?” Takahiro asked in a smaller voice than planned. The bassist chuckled, but released his hair, long finger tracing down Takahiro’s jaw as it fell away.
“No boyfriend, then. Good.” He popped open the one button done on Takahiro’s flannel overshirt. “One less person to beat up to get to you.”
Takahiro couldn’t stop staring at this monster. “Okay, are you for real right now?”
Matsukawa laughed, eyes clenched shut, clutching Takahiro’s forearms for balance. Takahiro laughed with him, still on edge and too hot, but – he was a real person. Why had Takahiro ever tried to put him on a pedestal higher than a stage?
He took a step closer.
“You’re a treat, Takahiro.” He couldn’t help but shudder at his name in his favorite voice. “I’ve been trying to track you down for a while, but you’re quite slippery after a show, and-”
Takahiro had only had two beers, but his punch-drunk head didn’t care as he surged forward to slap his mouth on Matsukawa’s, beer and cigarettes and the metal tang of Matsukawa’s lip ring. Matsukawa’s nails dug into his forearms, hauling him in so Takahiro was pinning him to the brick, mouths open, Takahiro muscling out the tobacco taste to replace it with his. He grabbed what he could with Matsukawa holding his arms at his sides – the top hem of Matsukawa’s pants, tight and beltless, still slipping with set sweat, squeaking under Takahiro’s palms. He slid his hands around to Matsukawa’s lower back, bared at the ruck of a too-small tank top. Matsukawa gasped into his mouth, a little whimper Takahiro never could have extracted from the leather-studded stage icon. Their teeth clacked; Takahiro flipped at the lip ring with his tongue, silver on his palate.
“Oi! Matsukawa! Quit spit-swapping or we’ll leave you!”
Matsukawa held him in for one, two more movements, then sucked away to yell, “Buzz off, Iwaizumi!” He cupped Takahiro’s face for a soft kiss that made his kneecaps give way,, then whispered to his teeth, “Gimme your arm.”
Takahiro stuck his hand up between them, panting. Matsukawa grinned, red lips still parted, and yanked a keychain Sharpie from the three (and one unpaired top) hanging from the keys clipped to a beltloop. He snatched Takahiro’s wrist and scratched it down the inside of his forearm, big gestures to his elbow. Matsukawa’s own left arm was covered in similar marks. Takahiro had always thought they were tattoos, but now he saw the characters’ runny edges – and no one gets a tattoo of their grocery list except dumb white people. Matsukawa slapped the Sharpie back into its top and kissed Takahiro’s slack palm. “Call me, okay?” Takahiro nodded; Matsukawa dropped his wrist and ran, already yelling at Iwaizumi to hold his horses.
Takahiro stared down at his arm – a phone number signed with Issei, a few tiny hearts around some of his prominent freckles. He fell against the wall and stared until his breath didn’t taste like secondhand smoke anymore.