Chapter Text
There is an innate human desire to be wanted.
To be admired. To be of value to others. To be loved. A sense of belonging, so to speak.
Most people would say that Mugm has that; he has hundreds of thousands of people who would be willing to drop to the floor to act as his red carpet if he so pleases. He’s had this for a few years, ever since his ‘big break’ as a star when he was merely fifteen.
Back then, he was doing it primarily out of necessity… but you can’t blame him for admittedly enjoying some of the attention. Don’t lie, you would too.
Just imagine a stadium all singing along to your song, a song that you put out there for the world to hear. They’re all listening to you. You are the nucleus of their world for the two-hour duration of the concert.
Nothing else matters at that moment.
Nothing else even compares to being heard—“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Mugm.” His homeroom teacher, who teaches music theory, greets him as he steps into the classroom. Unfortunately, despite his ultra-successful music career, his parents still value humility and education.
Personally, the second he turns eighteen next year will be the moment he leaves this hellhole. His parents can’t force an adult to stay in this confined space for three months at a time (he gets off for a month to work).
Mugm hands the teacher his late slip before moving between the rows of tables to reach his desk in the back. He swings his bag down and leans back in his seat. He nudges the boy next to him, “What the fuck is he writing on the board?” He whispers to Nezo—his roommate—he can’t see the writing clearly because he didn’t bring his glasses.
“Literally just information about the autumn festival, don’t worry, bro,” Nezo whispers back, shooting him a small smile. Mugm had just gotten back from one of his month-long ‘breaks’ from the academy to perform in Europe. Hence, why he’s kinda lost; the only updates he’s gotten on homework were through occasional group calls with Nezo, Silva, and Puqi. And no offense to them, but those three are not the most studious people.
Mugm would ask other people, but he’s not that familiar or friendly with other students.
Comes with the territory of already having a name in the industry; people are either apprehensive about talking to him or treat him special because they want him to somehow ‘get them in.’ Which is fine, Mugm prefers it this way anyway. He likes having his small group of friends; they’re all he needs.
“Each of you will be performing a piece at the autumn festival, as one of the upperclass classes. Please refer to the guideline booklet before asking me any questions,” His teacher paces about the front of the classroom as he speaks, his arms moving as vague blobs in Mugm’s vision.
The autumn and spring festivals are the biggest breaks most students at Bliss get. Given that Bliss is the most prestigious musical arts academy in California, it’s not uncommon for performers to get scouted by legitimate talent agencies at their bi-annual talent festivals. Mugm doesn’t pay much mind to it; he doesn’t need another agency to tell him how to do his job.
The only reason he still goes is for Nezo and their amateur band, Brotherhood. The other three need him to be their writer, composer, lead singer, and bassist. It’d be shitty of him to ruin it for everyone else.
“There has been an update to the rules this year,” His teacher stops pacing at his lectern, flipping open his booklet. “You have to maintain a steady grade average of at least 85% for all of your classes to participate,” Last Mugm checked, his average from his last semester as a sophomore was around a 94.
School’s never been that difficult for him; Junior year music theory, senior chemistry, senior calculus (he would rather fast-track 12th grade and get it over with), and keyboard can’t be that different. Last semester was full of a bunch of mumbo jumbo, but even with the technically ‘harder courses’ this term, Mugm’s not worried. It can’t be that difficult.
Nezo looks like he already has an idea of what he wants to perform, given his wide smile and his closed eyes. Probably imagining the stage and their synchronized outfits; hell, Mugm would bet a dollar that the older is thinking of choreography. He made them do that for the spring concert last May; Mugm has never hated performing more than when he actually has to dance.
For his actual concerts, the most he does is hit a few poses while the background dancers do all the difficult shit for him. He just has to focus on singing, rapping, and posing for the camera.
The rest of class goes by painfully slowly, with his teacher rambling on about the history of jazz as if it’s that interesting. He can only feel relief when the bell rings for the second period, chemistry. He briefly checks his phone for the room number, “Fuck me…” Why’s it in one of the academy towers? He has to climb stairs for this class.
Nezo eventually leaves him as they split ways, the older has guitar period two… lucky bastard. Mugm’s never been that academic, sure, classes always come easy, but they’ve never been interesting.
As he walks up the stairs, a random guy collides into his shoulder; “Oops, I’m sorry, bro.” This silver-haired guy with hazel eyes stumbles a little, holding onto the handrail for balance.
Before Mugm can say anything, Quakitus walks up behind the new guy. Quakitus is part of another admittedly popular school band, Gilded. She also happens to hate Mugm for last year’s autumn concert, since Mugm accidentally unplugged their electric bass during one of her songs…. And Mugm stole her guitarist and drummer. What about it?
“Be careful, Stormz,” Quakitus warns plainly, not even directed at Mugm. She doesn’t spare him a glance before pushing her friend, Stormz, up the stairs faster. Mugm’s never heard of Stormz; he’s probably new.
When he reaches his senior chemistry class, his legs hurt and burn. “Sit down at the front with Wyll,” His teacher, Mr. Hyphen, tells him the moment he steps into the class. Mugm scrunches his face; he doesn’t want to.
He’s known Wyll since he was a freshman; the older is a year older than him. Throughout his first year at Bliss, he grew to really like Wyll. The other was hardworking, funny, charismatic, and idealistic. He would write and compose his own songs and had even invited Mugm to his band for the Spring festival that year.
Unfortunately, that’s where their friendship ends, considering that by autumn of Mugm’s sophomore year, the entire school viewed him as a parasite thanks to Wyll. A cockroach that got famous singing a song Wyll created. Someone whose fame is entirely stolen.
Mugm doesn’t protest, only sliding his bag off as he takes a seat at the front lab bench. It does mean that he’s going to have Wyll as his lab partner; fuck this shit. As the teacher talked and yapped away about chemistry, Mugm noticed how Wyll was taking notes.
He himself usually just relied on his memory to get through his classes—it’s a tried and true method, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. But Wyll is laser-focused as he’s writing; is that the Cornell method? The brunet rotates between 4 different highlighters, even using a ruler to underline shit. Mugm squints his eyes to read some of the smaller text.
“Please take out your own notebook. I do not share my lesson slides with the class unless they are absent.” The teacher stands right in front of him, ruler in hand, menacingly as if he’s legally allowed to hit Mugm with it. Mugm is silent for a few seconds to collect his thoughts for a response. “Quit staring at Wyll. He will not be sharing his notes with you, as it is against classroom rules to be a freeloader. Right, Wyll?” Annoyingly, Wyll looks up to nod, a sly smile on his face.
“No laptop or technology is permitted unless you have a permit from the principal.” Mugm didn’t bring any papers or school notebooks with him to school. He doesn’t do that. Mr. Hyphen luckily returns to his podium to talk about the new Carbon-Hydrogen Combustion Analyzer he’s somehow gotten his hands on. Mugm just fiddles with his singular black pen, twirling it around in his hands as he tries to pay attention.
He takes out his only notebook when the teacher shoots him another glare.
Mugm carries around his lyric book everywhere he goes; it’s a leatherbound notebook Nezo bought for his birthday and had shipped to his hotel since he was out performing in January. He admittedly writes a lot, so he’s going to have to get a new one soon. He starts writing down random ideas to appear like he’s taking notes.
Only halfway through the lecture does Mugm notice Wyll’s taking occasional glances at his notebook. Mugm uses his left hand to shield his words. He can’t have Wyll copying his masterpieces now, can he?
His teacher mentions something about the midterm grades report coming out soon. Mugm’s been away for the first month and has a few tests lined up for the next week to do, those will probably determine his midterms.
Mr. Hyphen moves to the lab bench at the front to show them a demonstration. The smell of the gas they use for the Bunsen burners starts flowing before he lights it with a flint and steel. Mugm leans back, away from the offensive odor.
The rest of period two comes and goes uneventfully, besides Mugm almost gets caught with his false notes. When the bell rings, he slides his notebook and pen back into his bag before zipping it up. “Mugm and Wyll, please stay after class.” Fuck Mr. Hyphen for eating into his break time.
Mugm watches in envy as the rest of the class trickles out of the classroom; Wyll looks just as bored and disinterested as he is. Mr. Hyphen brings his laptop and drags a chair to sit on the other side of the lab bench, clicking, searching for something on his laptop. “Mugm, how was the digital test you did for me?” Mugm finished a single test for unit one, the easiest unit of the semester, online.
Mr. Hyphen had created it upon request from Mugm’s parents. Mugm rests his head on his hand; “Meh, in full honesty, it was a while ago. Don’t remember all the details,” From his memory, it wasn’t that bad. He did fine in chemistry last year—Mr. Hyphen turns his laptop around; a nice red 17% sits bolded in size 96 Arial font.
“Do you understand why this grade would be of concern?” Mr. Hyphen asks, tapping his finger on the screen as if Mugm can’t see the large ass grade he’s just dropped. Next to him, Mugm can hear Wyll start stifling his laughter. The older one is trying his best to refrain from doubling over and laughing.
Mugm only hums; he knew he should’ve just dropped this course. When is he going to use chemistry? Realistically? He’s not Walter White; he doesn’t need to resort to manufacturing methamphetamine any time soon. Unfortunately for him, the due date to switch courses was last Friday. And he doubts the academy guidance department is going to take a chance on him.
“Luckily for you, Wyll has graciously agreed—in advance—to help his peers study the material as volunteer work.” Mr. Hyphen might be out of his mind. He was there at the start of sophomore year; he definitely witnessed what Wyll did to him.
“Oh hell no.”
“It’s Mugm?” Wyll speaks at the same time as him, and the older sounds perplexed. Mugm doesn’t want to look at him. Wyll’s always been a nerd, he probably thinks Mugm’s stupid as fuck sitting here with his 17% in chemistry.
“Wyll is one of my top students, and he has always been a helpful tutor,” Mr. Hyphen begins. Mugm rolls his eyes. Might as well list out the guy’s resume and cover letter for the position, too, while you’re at it. He doesn’t want to sit here and listen to a middle-aged man glaze his ex-bandmate/bully/rival.
“But sir, apologies for my direct question,” Wyll takes a deep breath before continuing, “He has the lowest grade I’ve ever seen. And he’s not here most of the time. It’d be like tutoring a freshman.” Oh fuck this guy, Mugm thinks. Mugm fast-tracked junior chemistry and got an 89 independently; he’s not stupid.
Mr. Hyphen laughs. The teacher actually laughs as Wyll essentially calls Mugm dumb, reaching around his laptop to type something. The clatter of the keyboard helps distract Mugm from A, the humiliation; B, the insufferable atmosphere. He should go on a walk after this.
“I’m not a moron. Just because I’m not a nerd like you doesn’t make me an idiot,” Mugm defends himself. He will not let Wyll just shit on him with nothing in return. He’s no bitch, he’s not gonna just sit and take it.
Wyll giggles and smiles at him, “Explain the number then.” Why must he be so insufferable?
“As riveting as your chemistry with each other is, I will have to cut this short due to a staff meeting I have in ten minutes,” Mr. Hyphen tells the two of them, closing his laptop. He clasps his hands together like he’s saying a prayer; “If you don’t get your chemistry grade up to a 50, you automatically are banned from the Autumn Festival.”
“And I doubt your grade average is an 85 with a 50%.”
Mugm would need a 100 in his other three courses to have an average of 87-88. If that were the case, that’s practically an 85. On one hand, he would rather take a summer course than spend time with Wyll. But on the other… Nezo would be really upset if he couldn’t perform with them at the festival. Not that he cares–He doesn’t, it’d just be a shame since this is going to be their second-last Autumn festival ever.
“And Wyll? I’ll give you double the hours if you fix his grades by the festival… saves his parents from barking up my tree…” Mr. Hyphen stands up, hugging his closed laptop to his chest. “I will be having weekly check-ins with Wyll. Be respectful, Mugm.” Mugm scoffs; his teacher is acting as if he’s a delinquent.
He gathers his things and runs out of the classroom as fast as possible.
“He has a 17%?!” Alrey wheezes at their cafeteria table, disbelief and shock on his face.
Wyll doesn’t see why it’s so shocking. Sure, Mugm has always been infuriatingly gifted at academics without even studying. The guy just shows up for his final and somehow makes it out the other end with a decent grade. But most gifted kids crash and burn eventually; his karma seems to have finally caught up.
The entire table is laughing, which is to say just Alrey and Quakitus. Kae’s on another vacation, and Napa is probably just skipping. Q wipes a tear from her eye, “How does someone do that? I didn’t know that was possible!” She’s smiling, very amused by Wyll’s news.
It is odd, though, because Mugm was in his chemistry class last year, and the guy was within the class top 10 when the final scores were released. Strangely, Mugm’s academics have dropped so significantly within the timespan of a year. It doesn’t make any sense.
“Serves him right for ruining last year’s Autumn festival,” Q always brings the incident up every time Mugm is mentioned. Wyll vaguely recalls the finer details from his own memory; most of what he knows is from Quakitus.
The story is as follows: Quakitus, Alrey, Nezo, and Nufuli all join together for a band performance for the Autumn festival showcase. Halfway through preparations, Nezo ditchestheir group for Puqi and Mugm. Then, in the days leading up to the showcase (literally during rehearsals), Nufuli leaves them for Puqi, Mugm, and Nezo as well. Then, during the performance, Mugm ‘happens to trip’ on Q’s electrical guitar cable (note the quotations, Quakitus puts up sarcastic air quotes every time she recalls the story).
All in all, Mugm is a huge douche. Especially considering he doesn’t even need the festival.
Mugm is already an established artist outside of Bliss Academy; he doesn’t need the festival coverage. He doesn’t need to beat everyone. But he still does, he goes and steals people’s band members and does this shit just because he’s a douchebag.
For people like Quakitus and Alrey–or literally anyone else–the festivals are huge opportunities to show talent agencies what you’re capable of. And they only come once a semester.
“What if you just fail him and we don’t gotta worry about his ass during the festival?” Quakitus bats her eyelashes jokingly, tilting her head.
“I want Mr. Hyphen as a reference, though.” Wyll sighs; his parents have been nagging for him to get a part-time job. For that, he’d need a handful of references… which could totally include Mr. Hyphen.
“7 other teachers you could ask, bro,” Alrey reminds him, taking a bite of his chicken sandwich.
Wyll spots Mugm walking into the cafeteria, walking side-by-side with the infamous ex-MESA band member, Nezoshoki. Mugm isn’t particularly tall; maybe 5’7 or 5’8, but he’s easy to spot with his black wolfcut and a singular artificially white streak running down his bangs. That, and also the fact that he wears exclusively black clothes and silver jewellery.
The boy sticks out like a sore—emo—thumb amongst a school full of art students.
Performative art students who dress in coloured cable-knit sweaters and still use wired earbuds. Plus, every time he returns to the school, there’s always a swarm of lower-classmen who are lined up for an autograph and a connection in the industry.
Wyll stands up and swipes his phone off the table; “I’ll be right back.”
He walks over to where Mugm and Nezo have been stopped by a bunch of freshmen, nudging himself through the group to reach Mugm. “You didn’t give me your contacts,” Wyll opens his phone and opens his create contact screen.
He hands it over for Mugm; the younger stares at it for a moment. “You’re actually serious?” Mugm asks, waving away at the freshmen to disperse.
Wyll cocks an eyebrow; did Mugm think Mr. Hyphen was joking? He might still be in the first stage of grief, to be entirely fair. Maybe the sub-20% grade hasn’t sunk in yet.
“What’s happening?” Nezo asks curiously, glancing between Mugm and Wyll.
So he hasn’t told his friends yet. That’s fun.
“Mugm’s a dumbass, and Mr. Hyphen is forcing me to tutor him,” Wyll says as it is. No point in helping Mugm hide the fact he’s failing a course. And not just failing; he’s closer to 0 than he is to 50.
Someone blind could choose the multiple choice questions (Wyll knows that all of Mr. Hyphen’s digital tests are multiple choice), and they’d get a higher mark than him with the 25%.
Nezo snorts, clearly not expecting that to be the response. Mugm dares to scoff at him, as if what Wyll said was factually incorrect in any way. “That’s why you were late to our meeting spot, huh?” Nezo teases a little, a sly smile forming on his lips.
Mugm lets out a sigh as he shoves the phone back to Wyll; his contact is saved as Mugm Underscore (Chemistry). Mugm crosses his arms; “Mr. Hyphen’s just putting in pure BTA, trying to ensure I’m failing.”
Not true, but whatever, Mugm can lie to his little guitar-playing minion. It’s none of Wyll’s business anyway.
Wyll swipes up and texts Mugm a message:
Mugm Underscore (Chemistry)
WyLL
tell me your weekly schedule so I can plan around it
He presses send and returns to his table with Quakitus and Alrey, pocketing his phone.
“What was that?” Q asks, she has already finished her spaghetti. Wyll himself doesn’t eat much during lunch; he’s more of a dinner guy. He just eats a granola bar and has a juice box to maintain his blood sugar.
“He ran off before I could get his contacts, so…” Wyll trails off, sitting down and returning to his juice box. He got apple juice as per usual, orange juice is ass, and he will die on this hill.
Man, they have to actually lock in for the festival soon. It’s his last one before graduation.
“I can’t believe you’re actually helping him~” Q whines, outstretching her arms on their table.
Wyll’s a fair person. When he gets scouted at the festival, he wants it to be because he put up the best performance possible. He wants to win because of his music, not because he eliminated the most talented student from the roster.
“Good luck, bro,” Alrey tells him sincerely, maybe it's an ode to what’s to come.
Mugm stares down at his phone screen as he sits in Studio A4:
wyll undrescroe
wyll undrescroe
tell me your weekly schedule so I can plan around it
Mugm
Sent Image
i have time every day except on fridays & the weekend
wyll undrescroe
oh! that’s better than i thought
how about today then? i need a diagnostic before deciding where to start.
Mugm scoffs at how the older genuinely sounds like a teacher. “I need a diagnostic,” Mugm mocks in a high-pitched voice before returning his fingers to his keyboard to type out a reply.
Mugm
ya ok
wyll undrescroe
do you want to meet up in the library? or what
No way is Mugm letting the general public see him with Wyll. The older definitely would just tell the entire ‘verse that he’s failing chemistry.
Mugm
im in stuido A4 rn, just come and ill unlokc the door for you
wyll undrescroe
alright, it might take a while for me to get there. have you gone back to your dorm since school ended?
Why is he asking Mugm this? Mugm stares down at the question for a second, why is this information relevant at all?
Mugm
no
wyll undrescroe
okay, then i’ll bring a blank notebook for you
ill be there in 10 minutes
Mugm puts his phone down and resumes the work he’s doing on the computer. With his Europe tour finished, he has to start producing music again. His parents want his next release to be by April. Depending on the song, it takes anywhere from an hour to fucking 6 months to make.
Unfortunately for Mugm, he makes 90% of his songs from start to finish. Hence, why he now has to actually work.
The current beat he has going is decent; he’s just been a little stuck on the bridge leading into the last chorus. Typically, his bridges consist of constant rap, since he’s nowhere near a soprano or a vocal range that is suitable for a high note. Man, he misses Nufuli.
Mugm lengthens the base beat along the timeline, humming the melody he wants as he listens to it. He wants to end the bridge on a tonic minor triad from the keyboard for a ‘final’ feel before bringing it back to the post-bridge chorus.
Mugm shifts his headphones before clicking in a new backdrop. Letting his brain think of new compositions is the most enjoyable part of his job (besides when he’s being told how great he is, that might just take the cake). The real part of it that Mugm dislikes is having to go over his work over and over to make sure it’s right.
Sometimes, when he’s had enough of a certain song, he sends it off to one of his executive producers to polish it for him.
After a couple of minutes, his phone buzzes again:
wyll undrescroe
i’m here
Mugm takes off his headphones and goes over to the door, “Yo.” He greets Wyll briefly before walking back to his seat, spinning around. “You can put your things on the couch, I’ll clear the table,” He rolls his chair over to the table by the loveseat couch he has in the studio.
“You have your own studio?” Wyll asks, sitting down and popping one of the candies on the table in his mouth.
Mugm is the only student with this privilege, but he worked hard to convince the principal to let him have it. That, and also management paid for it so he can have a private place to create music. Mugm chuckles, “Yeah, I still have to rent out the student recording studio though.”
He turns on the bright studio lights that he usually keeps off so he can see better as they do the work.
Wyll takes out a notebook, a pencil case, a folder, and a textbook. He slides the notebook and pencil case to Mugm; “These are what I give to all of my… students.” May god strike Mugm down; being Wyll’s student is the ultimate auraloss.
“The pencil case just has the essentials. I don’t always give it out, but I assume you don’t have anything on you.” How generous of Wyll. The older unzips it too to show Mugm the few articles of stationery he put in it.
Wyll then grabs the folder and takes out what looks to be a multiple-choice test; “I printed this like 40 minutes ago. Just circle the best answer.” Wyll turns and slides it to Mugm.
- Underscore | Chemistry Diagnostic
Mugm doesn’t realize he’s blankly staring at the questions without moving until Wyll clears his throat: “Try filling it to the best of your ability.”
Infuriating enough, Wyll doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t have any reaction to each of Mugm’s answers as he slowly makes his way through the worksheet.
Mugm would rather Wyll make fun of him. He would rather the older berate him for being a dumbass because at least then he could complain to Mr. Hyphen and potentially get a different tutor.
“Remember the conditions of the Ideal Gas Law,” Wyll provides prompts after Mugm stays an embarrassingly long time on one question.
Mugm scoffs, “In all honesty, I don’t remember shit. I should just bribe the principal to let me drop chem—”
Wyll cuts him off with a chuckle; the older leans back in his seat, “So you’re a quitter.” What an insulting thing to say.
Mugm lets go of the pencil and looks up, finally. “I prioritize what matters. Chemistry does not matter. If I were a quitter, I wouldn’t be an artist.” He knows what he wants. Chemistry does not matter in the grand scheme of things.
“If you weren’t a quitter, you’d be done with the diagnostic, and we’d already move on.” Why is Wyll such a smartass? Of course, Mr. Hyphen just has to assign the biggest nerd to Mugm. Mugm leans forward and just circles randomly, speeding through the rest of the worksheet.
“There,” Mugm can’t help the smug grin as he slides the worksheet back to Wyll. The green-haired man takes one look at him, unimpressed, before using a red pen to circle every question he got wrong.
When Wyll finishes, he slides it back to him; “You got a 30%, congratulations. That’s almost double what you got on the actual Unit 1 test.” Every time Wyll says anything, Mugm feels like he’s being judged. The older is very dry, not offering much spice or sugar to ease whatever the fuck he’s saying.
He used to.
Wyll didn’t want to say it out loud, but Mugm’s lack of knowledge is alarming. The guy circled the element symbol Co as copper.
He might not have actually been exaggerating when he told Mr. Hyphen that tutoring Mugm would be like tutoring a freshman.
“What’d you do over Summer break?” Wyll asks as he flips through the textbook to find the glossary. Mugm’s answer may also provide him with insight into how one can be this trash in a subject they did alright in a year ago.
Mugm shrugs, “American and Canadian tour, studio recordings… the usual.” The younger’s apathy towards his poor performance is pathetic to see. Wyll understands that Mugm definitely doesn’t need to do well in a high school chemistry class for a secure future, but he should still try.
Wyll would, if he were in Mugm’s shoes.
Wyll finds the glossary and makes Mugm review key terms: “Explain ionization energy to me.” That’s a term from the beginning of junior year chemistry, maybe even from sophomore year.
“Uhm,” Mugm pauses, twirling his pencil around as he pretends to think. He looks up as if the ceiling tiles have the answer written out for him to read.
Wyll waits for ten seconds of the ensuing silence to pass before giving up, “Ionization energy is the amount of energy needed to remove an electron from an atom or ion in its gaseous state.” He watches as Mugm mindlessly nods along to his definition. “Write it down,” Wyll flips open the empty notebook for him.
Mugm’s handwriting is strange; he only writes in all uppercase, and every letter is incredibly blocky. Wyll’s surprised he’s able to write any timed essays like this. Mugm mutters something about how ‘he knew that’ as an excuse.
“Alright, what’s the general trend of it?” The periodic table trends are easy as fuck to memorize. It’s derivable as long as Mugm thinks about what factors contribute to IE.
Mugm clicks his tongue before answering in full confidence, “It’s old as fuck. Mendeleev probably found that shit in the 1700s or something. I doubt it’s trending.” They are so fucked.
Mugm cannot be real.