Chapter Text
Mafuyu
“If you don’t have the resolve,” Shizu-chan’s words played on loop in Mafuyu’s head, “then I’m telling you this for your own good: Stop it.”
Tree tops rustled from a passing breeze, scraping against the window pane. Head on his arms, Mafuyu scrunched up his face and turned toward the worn surface of his desk. A few deep grooves marred the edge where the wood had chipped; stray pencil marks from careless students dotted the sides. In a corner, the smudged remains of a doodle stared back at him.
A long breath rattled out of his chest. The bell for lunch would ring any minute now. He could picture the usual series of events after that clearly: He’d drag himself from his desk, plod over and through the gym, pull open the door, and find Uenoyama waiting for him in their sunny stairwell, either bread or guitar in hand. Mafuyu tried to picture a grin on his face, but it would probably be more like a yawn or maybe a scowl, depending on his mood.
“I’m genuinely super happy about this.”
The words curdled in his gut, and the Uenoyama in his mind morphed to stare at him, arms crossed and tapping his foot on the steps.
“Will you give it a shot?”
Mafuyu ground his teeth. It wouldn’t actually go that way, he knew, but the question would hang in the air, cloying and sour, coloring every conversation, every glance and touch. A sharp, uncomfortable heat crawled through his veins, a sticky sludge full of burs trailing down his limbs as it pleased. And even knowing that Uenoyama would be waiting, Mafuyu remained firmly stuck to his desk long after the bell rang.
Work didn’t help.
A newly signed band oozing with talent stepped on stage to a full house. Their sound, sleek and cool and intricate — he couldn’t even follow the guitarist’s fingers — hit him hard. A knife in his side that twisted with every riff, every clever lyric, the wound throbbing in time with the bass line.
Mafuyu served juice at the bar after spending all afternoon setting up equipment and following Tsubaki around as words he didn’t hear streamed out of her. All he could remember was something about this being a tour of all the band’s favorite “indie spots” before they got signed. He’d tried not to choke on all the sighs collecting behind his teeth.
The show was, admittedly, great. Uenoyama would have loved it — he'd even complained about missing it because of practice with Hiiragi and Shizu — but the relief Mafuyu felt at the fact that Ue wasn't here made his stomach leaden. He scrubbed harder at the counter of the bar.
He finished up as quick as he could and left with barely a passing "thanks" to Tsubaki. The empty livehouse had become suffocating, closing in on him the way his bedroom had while trying to write his first lyrics. He could leave this building, but the anxiety sat heavy in his shadow, harsh under the streetlights on his walk home.
Being so close to curfew, the streets were less crowded than usual. Something about that made it a little easier to breathe; the spring air in his lungs kept him afloat long enough to make it back no worse for wear.
The apartment was dark. A yip and a scramble greeted him as Kedama launched from his dog bed in the living room; Mafuyu kneeled to meet him with head pats and ear rubs.
"I'm home, Tama."
The words felt muted and distant. Mafuyu wrinkled his nose and sighed as he stood. Together, they headed to the kitchen, the soft thumps of padded footfalls lingering in the stillness.
The following days progressed much the same. Mafuyu spent lunch in his classroom, doing homework he'd not had time for from the shifts at work he shouldn't have picked up. Before he knew it, a week had passed. When was the last time Uenoyama had texted? Something pinched in his chest, an unwelcome poke into an open wound.
…was this distance his own fault?
He snuck his phone from under his desk as the teacher droned on to scroll his LINE messages — it wasn't as if he and Uenoyama were all that chatty via text, since they were usually together. But they hadn't been to the studio in — he scrolled further and found the band group chat — over two weeks. That pinch in his chest tightened.
He sent a quick, "When are we meeting again?" in a bid to push against the quiet hollowness taking root. Playing with Uenoyama again, singing, would turn the music back up.
Paying attention to Modern Japanese was long past his capacity, so he put his head down and nursed his anxiety. He woke up sometime later to a buzz in his pocket.
Kaji Akihiko | 10:14
How about this weekend?
A thumbs-up emoji popped up from Haruki, and Mafuyu sent his own, too. Now it was just Uenoyama left.
It stayed unread, and halfway through lunch, Mafuyu's impatience won out.
Uenoyama
Uenoyama followed the wave of students as they changed classes, trudging behind Itaya and Ueki as the former yammered on about basketball — probably. His friend's voice blended with the din of the crowded hallway, failing to register through the bubble of preoccupation he'd been stuck in for days.
"I'll think about it later."
He sighed and stared at the ceiling. What did that even mean? Hiiragi and Shizusumi had said "he's always been the type to take a long time to think" — Ue huffed at their haughty attitude over that knowledge — and his own experience watching him write lyrics could attest to that. But what would have happened if they'd won at CAC? Mafuyu had wanted to win just as much as—
THUD.
His chin smacked Ueki's shoulder as his head snapped forward; he'd walked straight into him at full pace. Uenoyama stumbled back and caught himself before he could fall on his ass.
"Shit, sorry," he mumbled.
Ueki turned, brow furrowed. "You good, dude?"
"Uh, yeah. Sorry. Just wasn't— wasn't paying attention."
"I know. Been that way all week." And with one more lingering glance that saw entirely too much, Ueki stepped into the classroom.
Uenoyama heaved another sigh and followed him.
Mafuyu didn't show up for lunch, and honestly, Uenoyama wasn't surprised — even if it did send a small pang through his heart. He shoved the last of his yakisoba bread into his mouth and pulled out his guitar. May as well work on the song.
His mind drifted as he plucked away, thoughts growing more and more pensive the further he sank into this melody, so similar to the one he'd already written. The more he thought about it, the more he could pick out moments where the ghost of Yoshida Yuki flickered — along the edges of shadows, in the glare of reflected sunlight. No one could see him anymore, but he was always there.
It became more obvious as he spent time with Mafuyu's friends. This hole in their world, ragged and raw, that they had learned to live with. The song Hiiragi had shared with him was like that, too — raw and unfinished. But something underneath called to him.
He didn't understand Yuki, not in the literal sense; you can't claim to know someone you've never met. But the beating heart of it all matched his own in a way he couldn't put his finger on yet. All he knew was that he could do this, and, quite possibly, was the only one who could.
Ue strummed the final chord — a variant of the first one he'd played for Mafuyu — leaned back from his hunched position and let out a long breath. He hoped Mafuyu would come to the stairwell tomorrow.
Almost a week went by without so much as a word. Uenoyama sat cross-legged against the amp in his bedroom, guitar in his lap and fingers stinging. He winced at the time: 01:12. He was gonna regret this in the morning, but composing had kept this thoughts in check when they were so prone to wandering lately.
Mafuyu's avoidance was different from their previous "fights" — with the lyrics, there'd been tension, and a blow up, but Mafuyu hadn't vanished on him; last summer, when he'd been jealous of all the time Mafuyu had spent with Kaji, they'd kissed and made up with one confrontation.
His breath caught in his chest — kissing. He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of want washed over him, then blinked them open and stared at the spot against his bed where he and Mafuyu had…
Memories of new sensations flashed through his mind. Hands in his hair, hips against his, the warm skin of Mafuyu's waist. He whipped his head back to his composition notes, cheeks flushed.
Before this song, Yuki had hardly crossed his mind in any real capacity. His ghost had had no form — a blur of a figure that hooked its claws into Mafuyu seemingly at random. But now… Uenoyama swallowed, trying to keep his heart out of his throat. He'd stopped thinking about the person who likely held most of Mafuyu's firsts, and now that person was on the page in front of him, coming alive by his own hand, chord by chord.
He hadn't wanted to do this. Yayoi was right — it was hell. This process felt like jabbing needles into his own heart — slowly, deliberately, one at a time, for eternity. But as he wrote, as he played, the more he needed Mafuyu to hear it. To feel it. He could see what Yuki was trying to say, the love he was trying to express. Because he felt it, too.