Chapter Text
࢈ Top 10 Artist ࢈ National Billboard
// As of August 20th, 2019 //
Artist -- Last Week --- Rt. --- ---Wks on Chart
1 Satoru Gojo --- 1 = 273
2 SHAD0WFLASH --- 31 --10
3 Ryomen Sukuna --- 2 -- 311
4 Yuuta Okkotsu --- 13 -- 30
5 YK∞ --- 5 = -- 80
6 Girls^3 --- 11 -- 14
7 Z3N1N --- 27 -- 17
8 Todo Aoi --- -- 10 6
9 Kinji Hakari --- 17 -- 8
10 BLOODPACT --- 9 -- 23
He had just gotten home when he heard it.
“–so glad we caught you! And just after SHAD0WFLASH’s performance as well! Do you have any comments on their still rising success?”
Shoko must’ve gotten back first since both he and Nanamin refused to watch any type of news commentary anymore. It wasn’t the sound of the new reporters that had surprised him, though.
It was the sound of him.
“Yeah, I saw them, they were great. Everyone on the team really put their best in. I’m looking forward to the rest of the season’s performances.”
“And, do you think they’ll be enough competition to rally against Satoru Gojo at this year’s Invoke Awards?
He doesn’t notice himself moving forward, forgotten bags slipping from his hand.
“Ah..Well, Gojo-san certainly is talented, but so is the newer generation, so I guess we’ll have to see.”
Gojo-san, like he doesn’t even know him.
The interviewer, one he doesn’t know, giggles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, thanks for stopping by to talk to us–will we be hearing anything from you music-wise, in the future?”
“There’s something in the works. I’ve just signed on as a manager and producer for Yuuta Okkotsu under JJH Toyko.”
A beat.
“So, I guess I’ll be around to give Gojo-san a little more competition.” Surguru looked at the camera, at him.
“Wouldn’t want things too easy for him.”
What the fuck?
— —--------- —------------ —----------------
࢈ Top 10 Artist ࢈ National Billboard
// As of September 1st, 2004 //
-- Artist ---- Last Week ---- Rt. ---- Wks on Chart ---
1 YK∞ --- 6 -- 24
2 Ryomen ---Sukuna --- 2 -- 40
3 Naobito ---Zenin --- 48 -- 7
4 FrznStar --- 4 -- 10
5 Toji -- 67 4
6 6-EYES 一一 2
7 Q 27 17
8 Yoshinobu Gakuganji --- -- 19
9 KΛMO --- -- 6 33
10 Jinichi. Z --- -- 9 12
“Number 7, Suguru Geto.”
Geto couldn’t get up. His legs felt like jelly, and his mouth tasted like sandpaper. The gum his mom had given him felt like cement under his tongue.
The receptionist who had called his name clears her throat, her beady eyes scanning for him.
“Suguru Geto, Number 7?”
Geto’s Mom claps her sweaty palm on his shoulder, urging him forward. He swallows, taking slow, long steps towards the receptionist, “Hi.” –beads poke up at him.
“I’m Geto Suguru.” His voice comes out jilted, words stuck like honey to the back of his throat.
He’s practiced his routine and song a million times. He knows what he’s doing. He takes a quick glance back to his Mom, her black hair swept back in a ponytail, highlighting the dark circles underneath her eyes as she gives him a bright thumbs up. He can do this.
“Thank you so much for auditioning with JJH Tokyo today. If you could go down that hallway and enter the first room on your right, Yaga-san will be overseeing your audition today.” The receptionist nods, cheerily pointing down where Geto needs to go.
He nods, shakily, and follows her instructions down the hallway. The whole building is pristinely clean and white, unlike back home. All the floors and mirrors are polished as well, and each of the doors is decorated with black flourishes.
He pauses, just a few steps from the door. He could turn back. Right now. Tell his mom he’s changed his mind. She’d cry, probably protest—but she’d let him go. And he’d never have to find out if he was good enough.
A muffled voice leaks through the door.
“No, you don’t get to decide that.”
It stops him cold. There’s someone else inside.
Another voice, lower, calm. “You’re not ready yet.”
“You think I’m gonna wait around a whole year for your approval? You don’t even know me,” the first voice snaps.
“I know enough, Satoru,” the second voice replies — firm, but not cruel. “You’ve got talent, but no discipline. And this agency doesn’t hand out spotlight roles.”
Geto stiffens. His hands are clammy. He shouldn’t be listening, but it’s like his body won’t move. His fingers hover over the doorknob.
Then: “I don’t even know why my Dad wanted me to join your company. I don’t need this.”
The older voice — Yaga, probably — doesn’t raise his tone. “Then don’t be here.”
Silence. Then a thud, like a chair scraping across the floor. Geto’s stomach flips. He wasn’t supposed to hear that.
Before he even has a chance to back away from the door, it swings open, and a boy rushes through, pushing Geto aside.
“Hey!” Geto chokes out, grabbing the boy’s shoulder.
He turns around and– wow. Geto’s seen models before, but none like this. The boy’s a little shorter than him, but he's got a sharp jaw and smooth skin. His hair is white and fluffy, a few strands curling under his ear.
He looks in a little closer and– His eyes are startlingly blue. Like the ocean. He’s kinda..pretty in a way.
“--Fuck are you looking at? I said, Get out of my way.”
And it’s all ruined.
Geto brings himself out of his daze, feeling the tips of his ears burning. He tries to shrug it off, narrowing his gaze back at the boy’s eyes. “Sorry. ‘Didn’t hear you.”
The boy squints back at Geto, scrutinizing his baggy black t-shirt and black cargo pants he had borrowed from his Dad’s closet. “I don’t know you. You a newbie?”
Geto glances back at the now open audition door, and turns away from the strange boy. The last thing he should worry about is the competition anyway.
“Hello? Are you deaf? Don't– Hey! Don't just ignore me.”
What a weird guy. He rolls his eyes, shutting the door behind him.
And he's alone.
With Yaga.
The flood of jitters comes back into his system as he walks further into the room. Yaga’s not what he expected. He's younger than he thought, sporting a tracksuit and simple jewelry. He sits in the corner, legs wide, clipboard resting against his knee. He glances up, not unfriendly, but unreadable.
“Sorry about that. Satoru is a bit…abrasive. Geto Suguru, right?”
Abrasive. Understatement of a lifetime.
Geto nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Start with the dance. Track’s cued.”
He moves to the center of the room, to the lonely little X on the floor. Takes position.
The beat drops — sharp and fast, the opening synth buzzing through the speakers. Geto launches into the choreo. He practiced this until it haunted his sleep.
Step, turn, slide, spin.
The first eight counts are stiff — too much adrenaline in his limbs — but his body catches up. He doesn’t look at the mirror. He looks at the corner of the room, just past it. That’s where he always looks when he pretends there’s a crowd.
By the time the dance ends, he’s breathless. He bows quickly, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“Vocals next,” Yaga says, flipping a page on the clipboard. “Same song?”
“No, sorry, I have a different song. One I wrote.”
The older man’s eyebrow lifts, in what Geto hopes is curiosity and not judgment. “You write songs?”
He nods, slowly. He's been making his songs for years now, after his parents saved up to buy him a guitar for his 10th birthday. Sure, singing’s great, and he's better at it than dancing, but that took practice. With composing, it feels like the notes and words fit like a puzzle in his head.
The instrumental kicks in — slower this time. Geto closes his eyes. Counts himself in. This is the part he's good at.
When he starts singing, his voice shakes. But not for long. The verse is smooth, his tone soft and clear.
“Whisper low, I’ll hear it still. One word and I bend your will,
Glass between us, I see through. Every crack leads back to you
You move like you’ve got secrets, I move like I wrote them first
You run from what you buried, I dig it up, make it hurt.
Call my name, I don’t forget
Every ghost I’ve ever met
I keep them quiet, but they stay. Say my name—you’ll see their face.
The final beat fades. He bows again.
Yaga doesn’t move. Just writes something down. Then says:
“Choreography’s ambitious. You dropped a beat in the second set, but you recovered.”
Geto nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Vocals were decent. Breath control needs work. You’ve got a good way with words.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yaga looks up at him — eyes sharp, but not unkind.
“I’ve got one question for you, though. Why are you here?”
Geto lifts his eyebrow in question. “For..the audition?”
“I mean, why are you here, at this company?”
“Well,” Geto purses his lips in concentration. What was he here for? Maybe it’s for his Mom, and how hard she works for him.
But that doesn’t seem like enough.
Sure, he loved to compose and sing, but why the idol industry? Why here?
“I want to make people feel things.” Geto takes a step forward, confident in reaching Yaga with his answer, “With my music, and my lyrics, I want them to recognize themselves in that and relate. I know your company. I know that Yuki Tsumuko and Sukuna were also under this company. They didn’t just sing, they moved people–they moved me. I want to be that. I want to be…remembered.”
He stops, refilling his lungs with air. His hands are shaking, but his chest feels lighter. Yaga closes his clipboard.
“You’ve got potential. Welcome to JJH Tokyo.”