Chapter Text
It started in Osamu’s room. Not because it was the most convenient, or the most private, but because he had a mini fridge.
“Ya can’t just keep freeloadin’ my instant ramen every time we hang out,” Osamu said, strumming a beat-up bass that used to belong to some upperclassman who “loaned” it indefinitely.
Atsumu, sprawled upside-down on the floor with his head pressed against the fridge door, groaned. “It’s called band bonding. Feed yer vocalist so he don’t die.”
“We don’t even have a band.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Across the room, Suna plucked lazily at a guitar he definitely stole from his cousin. “We could. Y’know. Just cover stuff. No pressure.”
Osamu squinted. “Who’s even gonna play drums?”
Silence.
All three turned their heads to the corner, where Sakusa sat with his hoodie up, pretending very hard to scroll through his phone like he hadn’t heard a single word.
Atsumu grinned like he’d just found his next victim. “Oi, Omi-kun. Ya got good coordination, right?”
“No.”
“That’s a yes.”
“I didn’t say—”
Suna smirked. “C’mon, it’s either you or we put Atsumu behind a kit.”
That shut Sakusa up instantly.
The first “practice” was mostly noise complaints waiting to happen. Atsumu insisted on belting “Scrawny” by Wallows at full volume despite forgetting half the lyrics. Suna played just enough chords to pass as technically correct. Osamu was surprisingly solid on bass, though he threatened to quit every time Atsumu started harmonizing with himself. The only one taking it remotely seriously was Sakusa, which was ironic, considering he’d been blackmailed into it.
“Yer hittin’ too hard, Omi,” Osamu muttered when the cymbal nearly toppled.
“It’s called rhythm,” Sakusa snapped, cheeks red. “Maybe if your singer wasn’t two beats behind—”
“’Scuse me?” Atsumu whipped around, nearly tripping over a cable. “This singer is the soul of the band!”
“Then we’re already dead.”
Suna snorted so hard he missed his chord. “Nah, this is perfect. A band’s supposed to fight. Makes the music authentic.”
“Authentic shite,” Osamu muttered, but he didn’t stop playing.
By the end of the night, they had:
•One extremely off-tempo cover of Scrawny
•A broken drumstick
•A screaming neighbor banging on the wall
•And, somehow, a group chat titled: “Our band (don’t change it Atsumu)."
Atsumu immediately changed it to “Sexy Vocalist + Backup Dancers.”
He got kicked out of the chat within five minutes.
Sakusa added him back three minutes later. “For scheduling,” he claimed. No one asked him to.
The campus café open mic was not supposed to be their “debut.”
Osamu only signed them up because it promised free food vouchers. “We’ll play one song, get a meal ticket, and never speak of it again.”
“Or,” Atsumu said, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie like he was born for spotlight, “this is where we begin our meteoric rise ta fame.”
“Ya can’t even spell ‘meteoric,’” Osamu deadpanned.
“Shut it, bass gremlin.”
Sakusa sat behind the house drum kit, glaring at the sticky cymbals like they’d personally offended him. “If I get sick from touching these, I’m suing.”
“Just don’t lick ‘em.” Suna plucked at his guitar absently, already looking like he regretted showing up.
They didn’t even agree on a band name when the MC asked. Atsumu just grabbed the mic and went:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… The Scrawny Kids?”
“Kill me,” Sakusa muttered.
The crowd clapped politely, mostly fellow students who just wanted the free brownies.
The opening chords of Scrawny came out surprisingly decent. Suna kept it steady, Osamu carried the low end, and Sakusa had locked into a groove like his life depended on proving he wasn’t “just the backup.” Then Atsumu started singing.
“I’m a scrawny motherfer with a cool hairstyle—*”
“Oi!” Osamu hissed between bass notes. “Language!”
But Atsumu was already hamming it up, pointing finger-guns at random tables, tossing his hoodie halfway off his shoulders like he was headlining Budokan. The audience—half bored, half drunk on free lattes—ate it up.
Suna leaned into the mic just for fun: “This is tragic.”
The crowd laughed, thinking it was scripted.
By the second chorus, Atsumu had somehow dragged Osamu forward to harmonize, which sounded less like harmony and more like a domestic dispute set to music. Sakusa hit the crash cymbals harder just to drown them out. When the song ended in a messy, slightly-too-fast crescendo, there was a beat of silence. Then the café erupted in cheers. They weren’t good, not really. But they were loud, stupid, and ridiculously fun to watch.
Backstage, Atsumu was glowing like a man who’d just discovered religion.
“Boys. We’re a band. We’re legends.”
“We’re hungry,” Osamu corrected. “Where’s the food voucher?”
Suna raised his phone, already filming Atsumu’s self-congratulations. “Gonna post this. Caption: worst band alive (I’m in it).”
Sakusa was wiping down his hands with half a packet of sanitizing wipes. “I’m quitting.”
He didn’t.
They sat around a tiny café table, split between triumph and embarrassment. Osamu was halfway through his free chicken sandwich when Atsumu leaned across the table, eyes gleaming.
“Boys, history was made tonight.”
“History of what?” Osamu asked through a mouthful of bread. “Public humiliation?”
Suna had his phone propped up, replaying the shaky video he’d taken. He turned the volume up just enough for Atsumu’s off-key wailing to echo across the café.
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “Anthropologists will study this centuries from now. The Scrawny Kids’ Great Disaster.”
“The what?” Sakusa snapped, pulling another sanitizing wipe from his bag.
“The Scrawny Kids,” Suna repeated without missing a beat. “That’s what the MC called us. That’s the name now.”
“No, it isn’t,” Sakusa said flatly.
“Yes, it is,” Atsumu countered instantly. “It’s iconic. It’s marketable. It’s punk, it’s edgy, it’s—”
“It’s stupid,” Osamu cut in.
“Which is exactly why it works!” Atsumu slammed his hand down, nearly spilling Suna’s iced coffee. “People will remember us! Do ya want a boring-ass name like ‘The Nightingales’ or something? Lame. Nobody wants ta listen to The Nightingales. But Scrawny Kids? That’s branding, baby.”
Suna lazily strummed his guitar case like it was a prop. “He’s not wrong. I’d wear that on a shirt.”
Sakusa pinched the bridge of his nose. “I will not introduce myself to anyone as part of a group called—”
“The Scrawny Kids!” Atsumu interrupted, throwing up jazz hands.
Several tables nearby turned to look at them. Osamu groaned and stuffed another bite of sandwich in his mouth.
“This is my nightmare.”
And yet, a week later, their names were written on the sign-up sheet for the next campus open mic.
Band name: The Scrawny Kids.
By the second open mic, the café was packed. Not because people thought Scrawny Kids were talented. No—word had spread that watching them was like gambling on a demolition derby.
“Five bucks says the twins start fighting during the chorus,” someone whispered in line.
“Nah, I’m putting my money on Sakusa throwing a drumstick at Atsumu before the second verse.”
“My guy, Suna’s gonna roast them all mid-song again. That’s the only guarantee.”
The bets were dead serious—there was an actual spreadsheet floating around the dorms. Backstage, Atsumu was buzzing.
“Look at the crowd, boys. They’re here for us. For me.”
“For our downfall, more like,” Osamu muttered, tightening his bass strap.
Suna glanced at his phone. “There’s a pool going around. Odds on you two fighting are 2:1. I put money on it.”
“Ya—what?!” Osamu snapped.
“Relax,” Suna said with a shrug. “It’s free income.”
Sakusa, already sanitizing his drumsticks, scowled. “If this ends in chaos again, I’m leaving.”
“Ya say that every time,” Atsumu chirped. “But deep down, ya love us.”
When they hit the stage, Atsumu grabbed the mic like a man born for spotlight. “This one’s for all the dirtbags out there!”
He launched into Teenage Dirtbag with the overconfidence of someone who thought he was Wheatus. Osamu was doing his best to keep the bassline grounded, Suna was barely hiding his grin as he slid into the melody, and Sakusa—though muttering curses under his breath—was pounding out a drumline that made the crowd cheer. Then it happened.
Atsumu forgot the lyrics halfway through the second verse and just yelled, “OSAMU, BACK ME UP!”
“Like hell I will!” Osamu barked—into the mic.
The café erupted in laughter.
Suna leaned into his mic with perfect timing: “Bet settled.”
The crowd didn’t care that they were a mess. They clapped, screamed, and pulled out their phones, recording every stumble like it was prime entertainment. Somewhere in the back, someone shouted: “The Scrawny Kids for life!” And just like that, the chaos became a campus trend.
The café doors were still swinging shut when Atsumu flopped across a practice room chair like he’d just headlined Coachella.
“Guys, we killed it.”
“Ya killed my reputation,” Osamu snapped, tossing his bass into its case. “Half the school thinks we’re a freak show.”
“That’s half the school watching us,” Atsumu shot back, grinning. “We’re a phenomenon.”
“Yer a phenomenon of embarrassment.”
Sakusa was scrubbing down his drumsticks with military precision, muttering something about “unhygienic audiences.” Suna sat cross-legged on the floor, plucking at his guitar like nothing in the world could faze him.
Atsumu pointed dramatically. “See? Suna gets it. He’s vibin’. He’s channeling the music.”
Without even looking up, Suna said, “I’m writing our breakup song.”
Osamu paused. “We’re breakin’ up already?”
Suna: “Nah. Just prepping.”
Atsumu threw his hands in the air. “Y’all are haters. This is why I gotta be the face of the band. Charisma. Presence. Showmanship.”
“Delusion,” Sakusa corrected.
The thing was—Suna really was writing riffs. He’d sneak them in when everyone else was distracted: muted strums during arguments, quiet melodies under Atsumu’s rants. When no one was listening, his fingers moved softer, lighter—like the songs weren’t for the band, but for someone else entirely. But the second someone looked his way—he’d stop. Shrug. Pretend he was just messing around. The twins never noticed, too busy bickering. Sakusa noticed. He didn’t say a word.
Next rehearsal, Atsumu barged in late with a wild grin.
“Boys! Did ya hear? Someone made a Scrawny Kids Fights Compilation on TikTok. We’ve gone viral!”
“Delete this band,” Sakusa said immediately.
Practice was already spiraling out of control—Atsumu kept insisting they try choreo (“just like boybands do, trust me”), Osamu was threatening homicide via bass guitar, Suna was recording all of it for blackmail, and Sakusa had just finished sanitizing his entire drum kit.
Then Atsumu’s phone rang.
“Y’ello? Yeah, this is Atsumu, main vocalist of Scrawny Kids—”
“Main—?!” Osamu’s head whipped around.
Atsumu waved him off, pacing the room. “Oh, the campus spring festival? A slot opened up? Say less, we’re in!”
The room went dead silent.
“Yer WHAT?” Osamu finally shouted.
Sakusa actually dropped his sanitizing wipe. “You signed us up for a festival gig?”
“Correction,” Atsumu said proudly. “I signed us up for THE gig. Outdoor stage, big speakers, real audience. Boys, this is our time.”
“This is your funeral,” Sakusa muttered.
Suna finally looked up from his phone. “So like, an actual concert? With people?”
Atsumu pointed finger guns. “Exactly! People who’ll hear us, love us, maybe even—”
“Boo us off stage,” Osamu cut in.
“—and go viral on TikTok when we do it!” Atsumu finished, ignoring him.
By the end of rehearsal, the twins were still screaming at each other, Sakusa was stress-drumming just to drown them out, and Suna had quietly retreated to a corner, strumming that same secret riff under all the chaos.
Nobody noticed the way he glanced at Sakusa when he played it.