Archive of Our Own

Yudai’s wardrobe feels like an observation of all Jo’s shortcomings. It also makes him strangely aware of the lack of mesh in his own closet.

“It doesn’t need to be anything fancy,” Yudai says. His attempts to convince the room would be more meaningful if he weren’t one of the two people in it and the only one concerned, at that. The slide of another hanger across the rack sounds like a depleting HP bar. “You’re already hot. We just need…”

“Embellishment?” Jo offers from the emptier end of Yudai’s bed.

“Opportunity for conversation,” Yudai says, plucking out a hanger and holding it up for inspection. The shirt has more fabric than most of the others, but that’s not a ringing endorsement. Jo doesn’t see it covering his midriff, let alone anything below it. Yudai’s staring at it like it’s the biggest plushie out of the claw machine. “Come try this on.”

Jo puts his weight back to get an extra inch of distance from the shirt. “No one’s going to talk to me in that. They’re going to objectify me.”

“The first step to all meaningful relationships,” Yudai says sagely. He shakes the hanger at him impatiently.

The crop top spends the next two hours going from bed to chest to hanger and back again until Yudai has put together an outfit Jo vows to repress from his memory as soon as he takes it off. The makeup is worse because Jo’s skill starts and ends with eyeliner and the mascara makes him tear up, so Yudai has to reapply it four times before it sticks. Yudai lets him pick out his accessories while he goes to shove his own legs through a pair of light jeans and loop three belts around his hips. Their shoe sizes are barely different but barely is enough to make Yudai’s shoes more uncomfortable than the look is worth.

Jo leaves the house with a rockstar look and beat-up white sneakers. Anyone searching for a significant brand name would be disappointed. Yudai looks like someone who made good use of every hour he spent in the bathroom this morning.

From the time they get in the car to the time they pull up to the venue, Jo’s phone goes off nine times. Yudai takes it and turns it off before the tenth.

The queue at the door moves quicker than Jo expects for a line this long. Yudai has both of their tickets on his phone and talks while security scans them. “I told you I got these tickets from Maki, right? I think he was hoping to avoid seeing Nico, which, like—sure, but why even buy the tickets in the first place? They were pretty cheap, but still. I’m not paying money to avoid seeing my crush when I can do that for free.”

Jo deposits his wallet and phone in the bin before spreading his arms for the wand. “You went to the States when Euijoo broke up with you.”

“That was weird timing. I got a job out there, you know that.”

“You accepted the job after the breakup.”

“I like to think fate intervened when the situation called for it.”

They repocket their items and step into the vestibule. Yudai doesn’t seem impressed by the inside, but Jo slows his footsteps to marvel at the sheer size of it. The ceilings curve higher than he can rationalize, lights peering down to chase shadows out of every corner. When he looked up videos of the average concert on the internet, the venues were always bigger than this, with vendors fitted along the walkways and staircases tucked at the far end of each floor. This building doesn’t have the room for that, all of its amenities confined to one floor with limited bathrooms, but he wouldn’t call it cozy. He lingers two and a half steps behind Yudai so that he doesn’t get lost.

If he had to size it up, he’d say the concert space itself is about two cafés long and half as wide with enough bodies packed inside it to warrant a small government. Yudai’s hand finds his as they push their way up to the barricade, where they—or Maki, anyway—paid to stand. Breaking through the front line of the crowd awards them no shortage of glares and conspiratorily aggressive elbows, but Jo’s lungs kick back into gear once they’re out of it. Yudai looks unruffled as ever, already pulling his phone out to check his missed messages.

Jo stares at the exact curve of his bangs. “How much gel did you use to get that to stay in place?”

“If you even start to guess correctly, they’ll never find your body,” Yudai answers between one swipe of his thumb and the next. He stops and squints at his screen. “I knew it: Nico is here. And he brought that stupid fucking boyfriend with him. Do you see this?” He turns his obtrusively bright screen towards Jo, who has to blink a few times before the picture of Euijoo in the vestibule isn’t a danger to his retinas. It’s a good picture. When Jo opens his mouth to say so, Yudai takes the phone back and starts typing up a storm of poorly managed lust and easily inspired feelings.

Jo takes out his own phone and sees that it’s still off. His teeth sink into his bottom lip and he considers turning it back on for a second. No one’s hurt by it being off, but nothing’s gained from it, either. He’s never seen a stressor go dormant just because the ringer’s off.

The lighting changes before he gets to undo Yudai’s work. Yudai diverts his attention seamlessly, arms up and throat straining to cheer for a band he discovered exactly four days ago. He failed to mention that Nico would be here because he’s in the band, but it also takes Jo half an hour of awkwardly bobbing his head to realize that. It’s a small band of five people, and Nico the vocalist doubles as the electric guitarist. The drummer plays like he’s having an affair with his instrument, the keyboardist has more fun than anyone else in the venue, and the bass guitarist makes his religious experience a public spectacle.

The rhythm guitarist is something else. An hour under the stage lights has left his blond hair damp against his forehead. Jo can see him blinking the sweat out of his eyes but his fingers never stall across the strings, nor does he miss a beat on vocals. He’s closest to their end of the stage, so Jo sees the most of him; he sees where the grunge tee sticks to his sides and where his veins announce themselves under his skin and where all of the sweat from his forehead lingers at the point of his chin before hitting the stage. He sees sharp, crooked teeth catch the light whenever the guitarist shares a grin with Nico.

He sees a lot and, halfway through the show, starts to think the guitarist sees him, too.

Yudai gets a hand around Jo’s arm and pulls him closer during the second talking portion of the show. “I can feel the conversations in your future.”

“That sounds unpleasant.”

“It’s really not that bad if you prep. Not that I think you’ll be the one to—ow.” Yudai steps away to rub at his wounded side. “Have I ever told you that your gratitude is an open wound?”

“I try to avoid your poeticisms.”

“But not my ribcage.”

“That’s fair game.”

Someone shushes them. Jo ducks his head and shuffles a step closer to Yudai’s side. He misses most of the interlude because the shrieks in his ear are louder than the band on stage and he’s more concerned with monitoring the space that he takes up. Every arm thrown into the air makes him reevaluate his bubble. When he feels someone’s chest bump against his spine, he makes the executive decision to share a bubble with Yudai, who only cares long enough to sling an arm around his waist.

When the music starts up again, Yudai swings his hips like a girl in a movie trying to catch the artist’s attention; Jo’s hips move by association and he looks way less sexy when he does it. It isn’t sexy in the least, but Yudai wraps both arms around him and sings the lyrics in his ear. Jo hides his grin in the fold of arms across his chest. It makes it very easy not to acknowledge the eyes peering down at him from the stage.

“Kei—yo, Kei!”

Yudai’s hand grips Jo’s bicep tightly. “I think I just discovered something very interesting on the other side of those doors,” he mutters urgently, putting a bit of pep in his step. “Let’s go look at that very interesting thing.”

Jo would peer over his shoulder, but he possesses just enough self-preservation not to. “On a scale of one to ten, rate your interest.”

“It’s a solid move your ass before I kick it, Jo.”

“One of those integers our teachers used to warn us about, I see.”

“Hey!” Nico catches up with red cheeks and a heaving chest. Yudai narrows his eyes at the door like his fictional interesting thing might become real if he tries hard enough, but Nico taps him on the shoulder before it does. He’s shorter and prettier up close. His smile is devastating when Yudai looks at him; Jo considers hating him in solidarity just for that. “Juju didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

“Ah.” Yudai smiles with just enough teeth to make Jo look at the door, too. “He and I haven’t talked. I just wanted to come support you. You’re going on tour soon, right?”

Jo closes his eyes until the embarrassment eases.

Nico just grins, pride shining through his flush. “Yeah, we leave in a couple of weeks. This was actually our last show in town.” He looks at Jo for the first time, a glance that lasts for precisely two seconds before he nods at Yudai. “Hey, a few of us are heading over to mine in a sec. You guys should come.”

Jo’s eyes widen at once. Guys is a load-bearing and unreasonably inclusive word.

Yudai winces through that pretty smile of his. “Sounds like a private thing. We should—”

“Private enough to include the two of you,” Nico interrupts. “It won’t be a big thing, seriously. C’mon, I haven’t hung out with you in ages. An hour won’t hurt.”

Jo stares at the side of Yudai’s head and tries to telepathically import all of the reasons why spending an hour with Maki’s crush would hurt. An hour after Jo’s carefully budgeted curfew, at that.

Yudai does not get the message. Twenty minutes later, they’re parking the car half a block away from Nico’s oversized crib and Yudai is dragging Jo by the wrist. “You’re my excuse to leave,” he keeps saying, like Jo hasn’t watched him search the bottom of a bottle for his impulse control. “The second you’re ready to go, just give me a sign. Wiggle your eyebrows or something.”

Jo gives the system a test run. Yudai looks at his wiggling brows and pushes him through the door.

Blindly slipping his fingers into the curve of Yudai’s palm, Jo considers the party in front of him. “He didn’t really lie,” he observes. “This sort of ‘private’ definitely has room.”

There are people everywhere. It isn’t the chaos Jo has come to expect from movies and bad faith anecdotes, but the smell of beer and nicotine is so heavy in the air, his head hurts before they’ve even closed the front door behind him. He can’t pick out furniture that isn’t mounted on the wall but decides early on that he’ll nurture a close friendship with the ugly puke green vase to his left.

“Remember,” Yudai says. “One wiggle and we’re gone.”

He almost immediately devotes himself to beer pong politics. Jo hovers at his shoulder like an anxious dog for exactly fifteen minutes before it becomes obvious that Yudai isn’t going anywhere without a title and people are giving him looks typically reserved for creeps at the park and local cryptids for standing around like this. He ducks his head and shuffles over to introduce himself to that vase. Yudai magically gets a drink into his hand before he goes.

Watching the party from here is less terrifying, if only marginally. Jo sips at liquor that might just be orange juice and renegotiates his space every time someone steps on his toes. There’s music playing in the house, but it’s not the wall-shaking noise that he expected when they arrived. It’s the same list the band played at the concert, which he only discovers after Shazaming the same songs he heard an hour ago. Having his phone on again offers a familiar stressor as a distraction. He flinches every time one minute flips over to the next. He gets two notifications within the same thirty minutes and looks in Yudai’s direction like he can persuade the room to pass his eyebrow wiggles along.

“Whaa, he actually got you to come?”

Jo’s head snaps back to attention, eyes blinking twice. The blond hair is more distinct than the outfit or the crooked smile. “Uh,” he says, eyes bouncing around the hall for any sign of what he’s done wrong aside from existing. Coming up short on an answer, he curls his shoulders in and tucks his chin closer to his chest. “Sorry. My—Kei was invited. Nico insisted.”

“No kidding,” the rhythm guitarist scoffs. “He’s trying to play it cool, but he was expecting to see Maki tonight. He’s betting your friend’ll spill if he’s drunk enough.”

Jo picks his head up and eyes the stranger carefully. Seeing no obvious trace of malice, he quietly answers, “He’d win that bet.”

The guitarist leans against the wall beside him. “Euijoo’s also betting that if he talks to that girl by the window long enough, Kei will get jealous and go break them up.”

“That’s a bet for the lottery,” Jo says. “He’d make millions off that one.”

The guitarist grins. “Did you like the show?”

Jo tenses up beneath an invisible spotlight before nodding, eager to please but equally honest. When that doesn’t get a verbal response, he scrambles for feedback. “It was loud,” he blurts out. He pauses. “...is what I would say if I had no manners.”

A laugh jumps out of the guitarist’s belly, his eyes widening for half of a moment. “Mannerless you would be onto something. That’s usually the vibe at those shows, yeah.” He leans forward, like Jo’s blunder might mean something else up close. “Was it loud, like bad? Or loud, like a new experience?”

Jo presses his shoulders back against the wall. “Loud, like loud.” He taps a finger against his drink and searches for a better, less offensive response. “Like several vocally trained cats holding a spirited debate.”

The corner of the guitarist’s mouth moves. “Is that a compliment?”

Jo considers that. “They’re making good points,” he says seriously.

The guitarist laughs before Jo can reevaluate his conversational skills. “I’m Yuma. Vocally trained cat number two.”

“I’m Jo.” He shakes his hand with a nervous half-smile. “Neither vocally trained nor a cat.”

“How’d you end up at the debate then?”

“Peer pressure, mostly.” He frowns. “Whoever said drugs would be the biggest temptation lied.”

Yuma nods sagely. “They’ve really gotta start warning kids about those dang rock bands, don’t they.” He looks over his shoulders for a few seconds before giving Jo another laugh. “I think your friend is starting to notice Euijoo. You might be here for a while.”

Jo peers over the heads of Yuma and most of the crowd. Spotting Yudai in the midst is half luck, half height advantage, but all he has to show for it is the nasty scowl on his best friend’s face. Euijoo, easy to find for the same reasons, is doing a horrible job of not looking like a vindicated mastermind. Jo sighs and retires his fantasy of being in bed before midnight. “Letting him take me out never works out for me.”

“That’s not true,” Yuma argues, crossing his arms over his chest with a shit-eating grin. “You saw a good show and met me.”

Jo tilts his chin to meet Yuma’s eyes. “I’ve yet to benefit from that.”

“Yet,” Yuma echoes. It sounds like victory when he says it. “If you’re really nice to me, I’ll give you a discount on your next ticket.”

Jo frowns; he does not address the way this attention makes him feel. “That’s solicitation.”

“I’m aware. It’s my income being impacted, but I’m consenting to it.”

“I’m not.”

Yuma sizes him up. “I think you can be convinced.”

Jo brings his cup to his lips before the ruddiness of his cheeks can garner attention.

The party doesn’t get any more interesting than that. Jo doesn’t see Nico again and the one-hour mark passes without a word from Yudai. Jo notices the hour changing on his watch but figures that time will pass just the same without his commentary, either. Yuma doesn’t leave his side, even when Jo fumbles perfectly normal lines of conversation, but he smiles wide and proud when Jo stops removing inches from his space for other people. He subtly challenges that decision, tilting forward in micromovements like Jo might not notice.

Jo flicks his eyes down to where their feet are almost touching. He looks back at Yuma without budging. Yuma grins with all his teeth.

The clock’s teasing the two-hour mark when he hears his name above the noise. He jumps the first time, every listening head turning towards the source of the sound. Then it comes again as Yudai discovers the trick to slurring a monosyllabic name, and Jo revises every future moment he planned to spend with him.

Yuma looks over his shoulder with bare interest. “I think you’re being summoned.”

Jo cringes as a long and familiar figure stumbles in his direction. “I think this counts as an arrest. I should, uh.”

“Your KakaoTalk.”

Jo does a double-take. “What?”

Yuma pulls his phone from his pocket and waves it in his face. “How else am I supposed to give you that free ticket I coerced you into?”

Jo laughs, eyes shifting between Yudai and Yuma. Eventually, he grabs the phone and shares his information. “I’ll, um. I’ll—” he winces as Yudai finally spots him and cheers. “I’ll see you. Have a good night, Yuma.”

If Yuma says anything in response, Jo does not hear it over Yudai falling into his arms in drunken bliss.

yuma 🎸

hows ur friend

Regretting every decision he has made since grade school.

He is currently mapping out 6th grade and debating which juicebox was the wrong choice.

LMAO

n u

I came along during uni. He’ll get around to that mistake tomorrow.

i believe in him

how r u tho

did u have fun

Yes.

I don’t think I am one for parties. But I liked talking to you.

:]

god ur corruptible………

?

*That’s great!

autocorrect

Ok.

did u come b4 or after euijoo btw

on the mistake list

Technically, before. Chronologically, after.

intereeting disntiction

They met first. They dated years later.

n now the rest of us r being punished for it

Essentially.

do u have any insane exes

just curouois

No.

no like no insane exes

or no like ur nto answering

…Tell me what you think the answer is and I’ll let you know if we agree.

well i can fgiht so idgaf

But you can’t type?

dnot care to. im not straight

Ok.

The art gallery is Yuma’s idea. He shows up in an oversized polo, baggy pants, and a hideous beret that would probably start a new revolution if ever seen by the French. Jo is in a plaid sweater vest, so he doesn’t give critique.

It becomes readily apparent that Yuma doesn’t know anything about art. He stops in front of every piece and holds his arms behind his back like fewer objects in the way will clear the road to understanding. Then he says something like, “It feels like if I take my eyes off this painting, it might sneak in and replace all of the furniture in my house,” and Jo nods like that makes perfect sense.

The curator hears one such critique and looks at them very pointedly. Jo tries to hide from her judgment, but Yuma moves to the next exhibit without a hint of shame.

His lack of actual understanding becomes apparent once Yuma confidently confuses a folded up lawn chair for a life-sized computer mouse trying to make a statement. “It’s a piece about protest,” Jo corrects with amusement at the back of his throat.

Yuma’s eyes snap over to him in surprise. Then he looks back at the lawn chair and squints. “Where’s the protest in it?” he asks after several long seconds.

“In the historical context, mostly,” Jo admits, pointing to the folded envelope pinned to the right of the chair. “But it’s a meditative piece, in my opinion. You can make it about anything if you tilt your head the right way.”

Yuma considers that, then angles his head to the left. “It’s about the dangerous mentality of anti-literacy culture,” he decides. “Everyone wants to rest and take it easy, but if you get too comfortable, you’re going to fall through the straps and get sand in your ass.”

“A sound interpretation,” Jo agrees with a nod. “No idea where I pulled that protest bit from.”

They make eye contact and quickly look away. Yuma coughs into his fist and Jo clears his throat. Neither of them hides their snickers very well.

They craft bullshit explanations for a few more exhibits before the curator’s glare drives them out the front door. The heat in Jo’s cheeks threatens to bring him to ashes, but Yuma takes his arm in hand before he can start stammering out apologies. Jo lets himself be dragged away, trying in vain to bow on his way out. They get through the doors and just two steps away from them before Yuma starts cackling.

Jo presses his lips together and tries to retain his mortification. The giggles escape without his consent.

“Oh, God, she was going to kill us,” Yuma wheezes, starting down the street. “She had to know those pieces were bullshit. How many do you think she made?”

Jo exhales a laugh as he falls into step beside him. “She looked really offended when you said the teacup reminded you of your grade school gerbil, so at least one.”

“That was a compliment. That gerbil was a king.” Yuma nudges his elbow against Jo’s arm. “Hey, you want ice cream?”

The parlor is two blocks away. It’s Yuma’s treat because he has—in his own words—rockstar money, baby, and because it’s too cheap to justify a repayment system. They take their cups from the disinterested worker and snag a wooden table a few feet away from the window. Yuma digs in greedily. Jo eats at a slower pace and sneaks glances at his companion.

He won’t complain about any part of this, but he can’t say he understands it, either. It’s been three days since the concert and for the life of him, he hasn’t managed to make sense of Yuma’s rather blatant interest. He’s far from an expert on relationships or flirting—there is something uniquely embarrassing about approaching thirty without having experienced his first kiss, but it’s a secret Yudai is kind enough to carry with him—but he’s not oblivious. If Yuma had decided on any effort to hide his interest, he’s failed miserably, but Jo’s pretty sure all of this is intentional. Watching him at the show, approaching him at the party, texting him first, taking him to a museum after he mentioned it, and now paying for his ice cream all adds up to a speedrun courting attempt that feels wholly misplaced.

Jo looks at Yuma, with eye-catching hair hidden under that stupid beret and a smile that demands attention before it even makes a noise, and he sees someone who’s plucking at low-hanging fruit for no reason at all.

“Have you lived here your whole life?”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t jump at the question, but he stutters a bit before he finds his wording. “Oh, uh. Yeah. My great-grandparents moved here when they were young and the family’s just… always been here. My grandpa started up a business when he was my age and it’s local, so…” He shrugs.

Yuma’s tongue creates a bulge against his upper lip as he sucks the ice cream from his canines. “Do you think you’d ever leave?”

Jo laughs, the sound strained to his own ears and almost desperate to be believed. “And go where?”

Yuma stops and stares at him. His tongue slides slow to the other side of his gums before it falls back into his mouth. “Anywhere, Jo,” he says bluntly. “That’s the point.”

Jo takes interest in a cloud on the other side of Yuma’s shoulder. He shrugs a little bit. “I don’t need to go anywhere. I—it’s good where I am. This is where I’m supposed to be.” He hasn’t thought about it all day, but he’s suddenly aware of the phone in his pocket. He knows there are notifications racked up. He knows there are things he should’ve paid attention to by now, answers he should’ve provided to expectant parents. The ice cream going soft in front of him is a lot less appetizing when he looks down at it again. “It’s… does anyone ever really want to leave home?”

What a dumb question.

When he risks a glance at Yuma, he’s expecting to find an unamused stare leveled at him. The eyes that peer back at him are just soft and a little bit sad.

Jo ducks his head and eats the melted mess in his cup.

By the end of the week, Yudai is back on his feet and Euijoo is allegedly back on the list of blocked contacts. Jo leaves his parents’ home with a headache blurring his vision and hands shaking at his side, only to find Yudai sitting at his table with bags of takeout already on the table. Yudai smiles like he understands something that hasn’t been said. “I bought you an extra serving of rice.”

Jo inhales slowly. Love is a visceral thing.

They sit side by side at the dinner table, Yudai giving up long-winded updates on the Euijoo thing while Jo stuffs his face with rice. “And that level of toxicity is exactly why we broke up,” he accuses, pointing his chopsticks accusingly at empty air. “I know he was just trying to get my attention and I’m the fool for giving it to him, but he ate it up, too. You broke up with me, what are you still performing for? Why are we doing all of this jealousy foreplay?”

Jo is pretty sure it’s only still happening because Yudai has a tendency to fall for it and return the favor. “He could benefit from a conversation,” he says diplomatically.

“Or therapy.” Yudai takes a vicious bite. His cheeks poke out with the vigor of it. When he swallows, he does not look back up at Jo, which is his first indication that things are about to go wrong. “So. Nico was telling me about some things.”

Jo throws his head back and stretches out a groan. “Please don’t start.”

Yudai blinks innocently. “Start what? I was just going to tell you what Nico’s been telling me. Unless there’s something you should’ve been telling me that you haven’t—”

“It’s nothing,” Jo interrupts, because Yudai can and will drag this on for a week, if given the opportunity. “We’ve just talked a bit, that’s all.”

Yudai abandons all pretense of eating, dropping one arm onto the table while the other slides along the back of Jo’s chair. Jo tilts his head back a bit and lets it fall onto the cushion of his forearm. “That’s not how Nico tells it. Apparently, Yuma—who, by the way, you should’ve told me about ages ago—talks about you like you’re the second coming.” He opens his mouth with the look of someone prepared to make a terrible joke, then closes it just the same. He smiles like someone who considers themself benevolent for not making a high schooler’s favorite pun. “It sounds like he’s into you. He even took you to an art gallery. No one goes to those.”

Jo frowns. “I go to those.”

Yudai’s smile softens into adoration. He takes Jo’s face in one hand and squeezes. “I know, cutie,” he says in English, for some reason. He switches back to Japanese when his hand falls. “But Yuma doesn’t. He took you because he likes you. You have to know that.”

“I’m not unaware,” Jo murmurs and it’s the most he can say with his ears burning the way that they are. “He’s not really hiding it.”

Yudai squeals, delighted. “Really? And what have you done in return?”

“Not call the cops.”

“Poets have yet to reveal grander displays of affection,” Yudai hums. “Any other tearjerking gestures, or have you just been postponing that restraining order and hoping he notices?”

Jo chuckles beneath his breath, belatedly embarrassed to realize how little he’s been involved in all of this. “I… let him?” he offers uncertainly.

Yudai’s gaze lists to the side as he weighs the meaning of that. “An Austenian beginning if I’ve ever heard one,” he decides.

Red spreads throughout Jo’s skin alarmingly fast. He ducks his head and turns to curl against Yudai’s chest. Somehow, the sound of Yudai’s laughter comforts him.

After a moment, fingers tangle through his hair as Yudai starts petting the back of his head. “Do you like him?”

Jo fiddles with the hem of Yudai’s shirt, letting the question permeate every inch of his brain before he digs out an answer. “I like talking to him,” he confesses. “I can’t always keep up with him and I don’t think I always make sense. But he’s nice to me.” He goes quiet for a few moments. Yudai lets the silence run its course without encouragement. Finally, Jo adds, “He melts towards me when he laughs.”

That doesn’t make sense, either. It can’t, because Jo is no good at making sense. Still, Yudai exhales audibly and says, “Sounds like a crush to me.” Jo may be imagining it, but he swears he can hear Yudai’s smile in each of those words.

Jo is less confused when Yuma drags him out to breakfast two days later, but he’s no less nervous. He stands quietly at Yuma’s back, idly twisting a cut thread around his finger as they wait for a table. Then he has very little to offer when Yuma has a moral dilemma over which menu item fits his mood best. The pancakes and eggs feel like the ideal that films have pushed him to strive towards; the french toast feels like bread has finally learned how to rebel.

He gets a waffle.

Jo gets hangover soup. Yuma looks offended by his lack of adventure, but Jo’s too far out of his depth as it is. He sips at it with as little noise as possible and tucks away smiles as Yuma offers a bite-by-bite critique of his food. He waits for Yuma to say something about his silence, but he never does. He just keeps talking, filling the silence between bites with every sound that passes his mouth. Jo finds out about a mole on his hip and how twelve-year-old Yuma had been convinced it was terminal. One story ends just after the next begins, all of them somehow weaving into one another seamlessly, and Jo nearly spews soup from his nose when he laughs too hard.

“Stop, stop,” he pleads, covering his nose as he and Yuma both snicker. “That hurts.”

“But you’re talking to me again,” Yuma says with a grin. He leans forward, chest and biceps pressing against the edge of the table. “So it’s worth it.”

Jo falters, laughter fading out. He wipes his face with a napkin before offering a guilty smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be difficult.”

“Never said you were. But it’s fine if you were.” Yuma shrugs. “We’re all difficult sometimes.”

“But I didn’t want to be. I’m just… having some trouble, I think.”

“With me?” Yuma guesses.

Jo shrugs, lips pressing together awkwardly. “I get the feeling you like me.”

Yuma’s eyebrows lift. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Sherlock Holmes.”

Jo opens his mouth to continue and closes it when Yuma’s response registers. He tilts his head to the side in an attempt at disapproval, smile spreading without his permission. “I don’t know what to do with it,” he admits. “You… you’re really charming. I’m not used to charming people working this hard to see me.”

Yuma doesn’t open his mouth with an immediate response. There’s no performance of comfort in the look he takes on when he considers Jo’s words. He sits with them for a moment, and Jo manages to find comfort in that, too. “I don’t know if I’m charming,” Yuma eventually says. “I think I just try with you.”

Jo pauses to take that in. He nods with no shortage of hesitation. “I try with you, too,” he confesses.

Yuma’s eyes find his again and a smile spreads soft and easy across his face. “I know you do,” he says. Then he folds his arms over the table and changes the subject.

yuma 🎸

nd btw

Good morning, Yuma.

meow

Ok.

im gna keep trynig

n wokring hard for u

That’s sweet, but you don’t have to.

You have no competition.

And even if you did, you are going on tour soon.

so what

doesnt mean u dnt mean anything to me

doesnt mean im ognna get lazy either

just dnt stop talking t me again

deal?

Deal.

That will be a part of my effort to keep trying, too.

:]

▶︎•၊၊၊|။|||။၊|။• 01:23

▶︎•၊၊၊|။|||||။၊။• 04:01

▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• 08:33

Jo’s father calls him to the office on a Tuesday. In between all of the texts about Euijoo and the texts about the upcoming tour, he sees that message arrive in real time. He stares at it the whole time it’s hanging as a banner over his screen, then he chases it as it disappears. After he’s read it a dozen more times, he changes his outfit and heads into the building.

It’s not a bad place. It’s goliathan compared to the modest building his grandfather was renting when he first opened the toy company, but it’s no longer a family business, either. Everything about it is sleek and aesthetic, even the windows going out of their way to flaunt the company’s clean reputation. The receptionist that waves him in has the type of beauty only found in models, sipping from her coffee with one hand and typing up a long email with the other. The corridors are spotless, elevators boasting unstained silver and high-pitched chimes. Every door is tall and professional. Jo just feels cold.

His father’s office door is as suffocatingly familiar as his own. The plaque on his desk is blindingly clean because he takes pride in it; Jo’s is clean because the janitorial staff is paid well.

His father doesn’t smile when he comes in. His beady eyes just follow Jo all the way into his seat. “You haven’t come by much.”

Jo’s neck starts to hurt. He reminds himself to unclench. “I’ve had… prior engagements,” he says. The excuse is so weak, his father doesn’t even offer his disappointment. Jo tries harder. “I’m not ready to put myself at the front of things yet. I don’t know as much as I should.”

“You learn on the job, Jo.”

“There are many jobs where that is acceptable,” Jo says kindly. “Coming in as the CEO means the scalpel is already in my hand.”

His father hums. He’s been clutching a pen this entire time, hand poised over a document like he was in the middle of a sentence when Jo walked in. Jo doesn’t look down to confirm that theory. “You’d learn better if you shadowed more,” his father amends. He frowns. “If this is a bother to you—”

“It’s not,” he interrupts hurriedly. “I… it’s not. I just want to be ready first.” He rubs the sweat from his palms onto his slacks. Black fibers stick to his palm when he does. “But I’ll be ready. I will.”

His father eyes him for a moment longer before nodding. “I’m leaving this to you sooner than later, Jo. You need to get your head on straight while the scalpel is still someone else’s responsibility. Soon enough, every operational mistake is going to be your mistake, whether you were holding it or not.”

Jo nods with his eyes fastened to the plaque on his father’s desk. The sunlight catches the corner of it and the gold edge winks at him, like he’s the only one not in on the joke.

Yuma calls dibs on his Saturday, and Jo’s at his mercy before noon. He’s spent the entirety of the week in the office and it’s left him desperate for anything other than minimalist designs and psychological paternal warfare. Yuma brightens his passenger seat before he even says a word, and Jo feels a bit guilty for not texting back much.

“I’m sorry,” he says at the first stoplight.

“Did you try?” Yuma asks.

Jo hesitates, thumbnail picking at the seam of his leather steering wheel. “I really did.”

Yuma nods. “Then we’re good.”

There’s no agenda for the day, as far as Jo knows, but Yuma never really gives him a lesson plan for the day. He says that he wants time together and Jo gives it, even if it means he drives his car in unfamiliar directions and parks in the driveway of a home that doesn’t belong to him. It’s a modest house, roughly the same size as his parents’, with a recently neglected lawn and two other cars parked along the curb. Jo looks at Yuma for some sort of context, but Yuma’s already climbing out of the car and taking Jo’s phone with him.

Jo stares at his retreating back. “This is kidnapping.”

Yuma turns around to show him a frustrating grin. “I’ve got candyyyy,” he sings, waving Jo’s phone like an unwrapped lollipop.

Begrudgingly, Jo unbuckles and gets out of the car.

He snags his phone back just before Yuma pounds on the door. He sucks in a wince through his teeth and checks his notifications. He still has a slew of unread texts from Yudai accumulated over the course of the week, but he’s only gotten one message since Yuma grabbed his phone: a text from his mother. Jo’s jaw clenches before he catches it. When he attempts to loosen the muscle, his entire face falls and all of his hard-earned happiness goes with it.

The door before them flies open. The man on the other side of it is shorter than Yuma, but the glare he aims up at him is vicious. “So glad you’ve all made yourselves at home,” he says with cutting pleasantness. “Feel free to keep planning parties at my house without letting me know. I love the surprise.”

“Aww,” Yuma coos, stepping in close and throwing his arm around the man’s shoulders. “‘s the little bunny feeling left out? You want a special invite to the next shindig?”

“I wanted you fined and cited for saying shindig in this day and age.” He doesn’t brush off Yuma’s arm; he leans into it and steps aside to let Jo in. He looks away from Yuma to peer at his guest. When he blinks, his image becomes that much softer and cuter. In this light, it’s easier to recognize him as the pianist from the show. “You must be Jo. Yuma’s been especially annoying about you.”

“Ah.” Jo would love for it to be a surprise, but it isn’t. It’s incredibly sweet and oddly embarrassing. He coughs out an awkward laugh and bows. “Hi.”

“Ignore Harua,” Yuma advises. “He has no sense of guy code. He wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

Harua scoffs. “Looks like he already knew. Come on in, Jo. Sorry in advance for what you’re about to walk into.”

Jo doesn’t know what that means, so he walks in blind and every step is an overwhelming experience. The noise greets him before he even reaches the hallway, but it becomes a secondary worry when he takes in the walls themselves. Every inch of wall space is covered in trinkets of love: pictures of Harua in every stage of his life from infancy to stardom, wedding pictures from his parents, Crayola renditions of childhood memories, blown-up posters from &dinary Heroes’ shows, group photos of the band, awards for academics, scholarship notifications, acceptance letters. It’s a full gallery put in this narrow space, every piece of art answering every question one could have about Harua. Jo feels like he knows him before they’ve even spoken.

The living room is no different. The throw pillows on the couch are color-coordinated. There’s a bunny plushie sitting on the coffee table. The fireplace mantle has two pictures of Harua’s family and one of the entire band.

Every image of Jo taken with love is stored in Yudai’s iCloud. He tries to recall if he’s ever seen a candid picture of himself with his parents. His stomach starts to ache and he pulls himself out of the moment before he comes face to face with an answer.

The rest of the band is gathered in a den at the back of the house. Nico perks up at the sight of him, but Jo stalls in the doorway. They all look different up close. There are no blinding lights framing them from above, no sweat slicking their skin and pushing them closer to the image of godhood. They’re picturesque without being perfect, beautiful and awe-inspiring without all of the makeup that must’ve gone into their concert. They’re not rockstars from this distance; they’re just people.

It’s harder to look at them like this, too.

“Jo, right?” Nico asks, setting down the acoustic in his hands and pushing himself up to his feet. “Hey, we were hoping you would make it.”

“Mostly so Yuma would shut up,” Harua adds.

“That’s always on the objective list,” Nico confirms. “But I also didn’t really get to see you at the afterparty. Kei talks so much about you, I was kind of disappointed Yuma hogged you the whole night.”

“Disappointed, my ass,” Yuma argues. “The only thing you were upset about was not seeing Maki. You’re not slick.”

“Dude, shut up. I’m trying to—”

Harua nudges Jo while the two of them bicker. “You want something to drink? Alcoholic or not, I can probably accommodate.”

Jo smiles unsurely and shakes his head. “No, I’m okay, thank you. Um. Sorry for showing up like this.”

“Don’t say that. I’m happy you’re here.” Harua leans over an inch, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Not a lot of people make Yuma ramble you the way you do.”

Jo blinks. “I kind of thought he always rambled.”

“He sets a very distinct rhythm when it’s about you.” Harua points across the den and announces the last two band members: Taki the drummer and Fuma the bass guitarist. Taki is in telling a story that Jo must’ve walked into the middle of, because he’s all wide gestures and fast words and cackles that burst through his smile. Fuma sits beside him and watches with soft eyes intent on capturing every move Taki makes all the way through. When Taki falters mid-sentence, Fuma angles his body one extra degree to the left and says something that Jo doesn’t catch over all the noise. Taki perks up and dives back in.

Jo watches them and Nico and Yuma and wonders what he’s doing here.

Unexpected weight settles briefly against his arm before it’s gone again. When he looks down, it’s just Harua, smiling up at him. “You get used to the volume,” he promises. “They’re only half as annoying as they sound. C’mon, you can take the swing chair.”

The swing chair is almost exactly what it sounds like: an egg-shaped wicker chair that hangs from a hook but doesn’t move when Jo sits down in it. Yuma drops into the leftover space beside him before Jo’s even settled in. His hand lands on the seam where their thighs press together and he pinches idly at the fabric of Jo’s pants. “None of you are allowed to take advantage of Jo being here,” Yuma declares. “No asking for embarrassing shit about me. Be professional.”

“Thinking we want to talk about you at all is crazy,” Nico deadpans.

“Jo, was that your first &dinary Heroes show?” Taki asks. He’s done with his story, apparently, and his attention to Jo has him bent over his knees and smiling through bright eyes. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in the crowds before.”

“It was a big crowd,” Jo points out.

“I would notice.”

Jo nibbles on his bottom lip and nods. “It was my first show, yes. Maki gave Yudai tickets, and Yudai asked me to go with him, so…” He prepares himself for the follow-up questions: for why didn’t Maki come? and why’d Kei ask you?

“We’re really glad you came,” Taki says instead. His smile remains like an unquestionable truth. “What was your favorite song?”

Jo almost jumps at the question. His fingers twitch for his phone, but he already has the order of his playlist memorized, every song now a staple of his routine and a balm to all of the frustrations the week has brought him. “Scent,” he answers honestly. “I listen to it while I draw. It’s… relaxing, somehow.”

Several eyebrows lift in tandem. “You listen to us while you draw?” Yuma asks. Televised awards have left people with less pride in their tone. “It’s not distracting?”

Jo spares half a thought towards the alternatives and shakes his head. “It calms me down. My pencils like it, too.” He realizes how weird it sounds after he says it; he doesn’t stress himself out trying to take it back. “Bewitched is—it inspires me, too. In a different way, though.”

Harua tilts his head curiously. “Different how?”

Jo taps his fingers against his knee as he thinks. Just a few centimeters away, his pants crease between Yuma’s fingers. “Scent tells me to drink some coffee and practice drawing figurines on the corner of my paper. Bewitched locks me in a room with charcoal pencils and encourages me to call DaVinci’s bluff.”

“Can’t say I had DaVinci in mind, but I was thinking about elaborate scenes when I wrote the song,” Fuma muses. “I’m not allowed to pick favorites, but if I were…”

“Do you ever tell the truth?” Nico demands. “What song did you write, Fuma? When?”

“He kind of wrote—no, nevermind,” Harua backtracks. “I was going to give him credit for something, then I remembered he had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re still allowed to credit me for it.”

“We’re not crediting you for shit,” Yuma says vehemently. “First of all, you don’t even show up to practice half of the time. Actually, when was the last time you even learned the lyrics to a song?”

“What song don’t I know?”

“Sing the chorus to Bewitched.”

Fuma opens his mouth. Then he closes it. “Oh,” he says confidently.

Taki bursts out laughing from the other side of the couch. Harua, sitting between them, turns his body towards Fuma to continue the interrogation, each question growing more heated as Fuma remains unflinching. It becomes a group assault, everyone pointing fingers and talking over each other, laughing in between words and careening towards each other with every joke that passes from one mouth to the next.

They never stop seeking Jo out. They look at him like he’s a part of every joke, asking for his opinion, for his history, for his involvement. And he tries, stammering out responses and offering laughter when he’s allowed, but something in him flees to a corner that he can’t reach. Every time the light of Taki’s smile shines over at him to chase out his shadows, it just gets further away.

His joy grows smaller as the time passes. From this distance, the five of them just look bigger. Far too big for the sleek walls of his future to hold them safely.

yuma 🎸

meow

what r u doing 2mrw

thers a band (nt as cool as us) plsying at this cafe i like

tix are free n i wanna go

support small buisnesses yk ❤️

hello

ojojjojojo

jooooooo

hello?

ehyyyyy

-__-

fiiiiiiiine . enjoy ur employmnet

i’ll be bck cfor u

yuma 🎸

are u off nyet

jooojojojojojojojojo

ur not this busy

comeononnnnnn dont u miss me yet

:(

im fronwing now. be informed

…dude seriously where are you, this is kind of upsetting me lol

i hope you’re not hurt or anything but like. if you’re not, at least text me back

guessing thats a no on the show then … got it 👍

Maki and Euijoo are both at Yudai’s when Jo gets there. He looks at the three of them sitting around the living room together like there isn’t a full book of history built around them and debates walking back out the door. He could get back to his car before they’ve even gotten off the couch if he moves quick enough.

He doesn’t. Maki sees him standing in the door and lights up. “Oh, hey, Jojo!”

Jo smiles on instinct. “Hi, Maki. Hi, Euijoo-hyung.”

Sitting at the coffee table, Euijoo gives him that endeared look he takes on whenever Jo situates his awkwardness around their language barrier. “Hi. Doing okay?”

The polite, expected response is always yes. Jo opens his mouth to share the lie and fails to find the words. He gives up after a few taut seconds of silence. “I think I’m having boy problems.”

Euijoo blinks in surprise before softening again. “Is it anything lychee sake could solve?”

It isn’t, but that doesn’t stop Jo from trying. He drinks down to the bottom of every cup Maki pours in front of him and listens as the three of them discuss their own boy problems. “I don’t think I get it,” he admits after half an hour listening to Maki talk. “Why won’t you just…?” He gestures widely, vaguely.

“Because it’s—y’know, ‘s Nico,” Maki says, as if the very name holds the same weight as the entire dictionary. “He’s my bro. Like. He’s just my bro.”

“Bro-zoning a man that you popped a boner for half an hour ago,” Euijoo muses with a half-empty cup before his lips. “That’s a choice.”

“It’ll pass, won’t it?” Maki asks, like the right amount of desperation will persuade reality to agree with him. “Everyone gets a little hot over their best friends. Why would I fuck things up over something that’s going to pass?”

“Maki, c’mon.” Yudai slumps at his side, head pillowed on Maki’s shoulder. He’s a few streets past drunk, but that’s expected. He’s never handled his liquor well. “You’ve been saying it’s going to pass for a year now. Be honest with yourself. S’not going anywhere until you do something about it.”

Maki’s eyebrows dig in, clearly offended that Yudai would bring up something as meaningless as fact. “Uh, I am doing something about it. I’m not ruining my friendship.”

Yudai’s eyes slide to Jo. “I’ve heard something similar before.”

Jo ducks his head and takes another drink.

Euijoo sets down his cup and folds his arms over the table. “Okay, you don’t want to go too far. Sure. But avoiding him like this? You can’t think that’s the right thing to do.”

Maki winces. “I’ve been rethinking my strategy.”

“Yeah? Any progress?”

“My new strategy is to avoid him until I come up with a better one.”

“Sound plan. It’s definitely going to work out.”

Yudai sits up, eyes narrowed at Euijoo. “Why do you care so much about what’s going on in his pants?”

“I said plans.”

“You’re in his pants?”

Euijoo’s smile melts, wide and dopey. “I love how delusional you are. It doesn’t matter what I say, does it?”

Yudai points at him. “You make me nauseous.”

“No, Yudai, I’m pretty sure that’s the alcohol.”

“Ah.” Yudai nods, as if he hadn’t considered that before. “Euijoo, finish this drink for me.”

Euijoo leans over the table to peer into the cup. “It’s empty, babe.”

Yudai scowls. “So? Refill it and drink it.”

“As you wish.” Euijoo uncaps another bottle of sake.

Maki looks at the two of them with exhaustion. “Can we go back to talking about me now?”

Jo hides his quiet laughter and ruddy cheeks in the rim of his cup. Listening to all of this—the drama that has nothing to do with him, the relationships that he’s long since stopped trying to wrap his mind around—makes it easier to live with what’s weeping in his chest. He listens to their easy back and forth and, for once, naturally doesn’t look at his phone to see what he’s ignoring.

Jo doesn’t convince himself to go back into the office on Monday. Or Tuesday or Wednesday. He’s still choking on issues that have to be handled off the clock, and he can’t handle all of those unread texts and his father, too. He has a bank of voicemails from his mother that he can’t listen to, and every day feels heavier than the last one. Everything feels like a new responsibility that he can’t bring himself to tackle just yet.

It comes back to bite him on Thursday. His father stands in the middle of his living room like a reckoning given flesh and bone. Everything his gaze touches is scheduled to be trashed the second he leaves.

The stillness of the room makes it too hard for Jo to breathe. He kickstarts his breath manually. “Father,” he says, and that’s all he manages to get out.

It’s enough. His father pulls his gaze to him and his jaw turns strict. His shoulders sit taut with disapproval. “You were doing so well, Jo,” he says. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been…” Jo tries not to shrug. He tries not to look away and root around for excuses. He’s too tired for them. “I just needed some time away.”

“You don’t get that, Jo,” his father says. He never raises his voice or changes his tone much. It’s a kind of strictness that doesn’t have to move in order to hurt. “We don’t get time away. You haven’t even gotten a headstart on your future and you’re already taking a vacation?”

Jo clamps his mouth shut. His face burns for everything he’s said wrong. And it’s all wrong, all the time. He only ever gets it wrong when it comes to his father and he’s run out of words to try.

“You’re not a kid anymore,” his father continues. “I’ve let you have such a good life. Do you really not intend to take responsibility for anything? Do you plan on being halfway out the door until I’m rotting in the ground behind you, is that it?”

Jo closes his eyes. “Father.”

“I want to understand you.” There’s a single shuffle as one foot slides forward against the carpet, a one-and-done attempt to cross the distance. “I am trying, I am. But I don’t get the feeling that you care.”

“I care about you more than anything,” Jo argues, brows furrowing with disbelief. The look on his father’s face hasn’t changed in the least, but the feeling in Jo’s chest has. It’s grown tighter; even harder to breathe. “I want—I want to do this for you, but I just—”

“But what?”

Jo flattens the line of his lips and stares at the ground. He searches his brain for the right answer, the key to fixing something that he’s been getting wrong his entire life, and comes up short of anything he hasn’t tried before. He just stares at where the carpet presses in beneath his feet and wishes for it to swallow him whole.

The knock on the door is both unexpected and unpleasant. Jo can’t think of a worse time for someone to visit. His father keeps staring at him. Then the person knocks again, and his father nods his head towards the entryway. “Don’t keep them waiting.”

Jo escapes to the front door. He’s reluctant to open it.

He barely has it open before Yuma is pushing past him, words falling from his tongue long before Jo figures out his hello. “You have a whole lot of nerve,” Yuma rants, taking up space beyond the doorway like it was meant for him. “I gave you so many damn chances. I keep giving you chances, I keep—I keep waiting for some kind of word—”

Jo’s brain catches up with him three seconds too late. “Wait.”

“And I’m not asking for a lot,” Yuma continues. “I’m not asking you to do anything outside of your comfort zone. I wouldn’t. All I’m asking is that—”

“Please,” Jo interrupts, eyes burning, “stop.”

Yuma, for all of the anger and hurt in his own eyes, listens. He glares for a few seconds before asking, “What?”

Jo’s lips part again and he tries to think of what to say. He tries to prioritize his goals: his apology, his explanation, his father, his need to run away from it all. He tries to decide what comes first. But like everything that’s come before it, the choice is taken out of his hands. The shuffle of his father’s slippers announces him before he speaks. “You have a guest.”

Sick turns in Jo’s stomach and he closes his eyes again, trying to breathe past it. Yuma looks around his shoulder and straightens up. “Oh! Ah, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize Jo wasn’t alone.” All of the fury in his tone becomes a figment of Jo’s imagination, his voice and smile pleasant and polite before he bows. “My name is Yuma. I’m a friend of Jo’s.”

“I see.” Jo’s father looks at his son. Then he looks at Yuma. “Asakura Kisuke. His father.”

Jo does not watch understanding draw across Yuma’s face. He comforts himself by not looking at anything in particular. “It’s nice to meet you,” Yuma eventually says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“We were done here.” And Jo does not look, but he can still feel those eyes on him. They burn the skin from his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that my son left you waiting, too. His greatest talent has always been convincing the room he’ll make use of the space he takes up.”

Jo does not flinch. He keeps his eyes far away from anything and tells himself it’s better that way.

Yuma politely bids his father goodbye when he walks out. Jo doesn’t say anything and his father doesn’t say anything to him in return. The door shuts the way most conversations do: with the expectation that it’ll open up again and the same feelings will have metastasized by the time it does.

His father’s created an art of breeding silence in his wake. Every room he exits is fuller than it was when he was in it, every corner filled with the residue of his disapproval. At least, that’s Jo’s experience. It’s the reality that he lives in now, left in a hall with just Yuma and all the evidence of his father’s disgust.

Yuma breathes first. It’s barely audible, but it’s deafening between them. “Jo—”

“How dare you?” he interrupts. “Why would you come here? Why would you walk in like that?”

Yuma blinks wide eyes. His shock drains out quickly, replaced by irritation that comes easily to him. “I wouldn’t have had to come here at all if you hadn’t ghosted me again. I’ve been texting you for days.”

“And I haven’t responded,” Jo snaps. “Take a hint.”

The irritation disappears, too. Yuma blinks again, his face falling entirely. There’s nothing left on it until the worry creeps in. “What is up with you? Why are you so mad at me?”

“Because,” he huffs, as if that’s a response. His tongue ties itself up around everything else he wants to say. It all feels childish now; he feels childish and humiliated. “This isn’t your life to trample over, Yuma. You can’t just—just come in and—and throw fits whenever you want! In front of my father!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know he was in here?”

“You didn’t wait two seconds for me to tell you! You never wait!” Jo cries. “You just—you—you see things that you want and you just go for them! You never stop and think, you just do!”

Yuma stares at him with his mouth ajar, eyebrows furrowed. “So what, am I supposed to wait for someone else to decide what’s worth going for? Newsflash, Jo, I don’t need anyone’s fucking permission to live.”

“It’s not even about permission, it’s about knowing when enough is enough. And you never do.”

“And how would you know?” Yuma bites back. “You don’t even pass the finish line before you back off. You don’t decide on anything, Jo! You will stand in the same fucking spot for hours and minimize your space before you tell people to get off your damn toes. You think you’re supposed to live and die in the same box you were born in.”

“And what is so wrong with that?”

“It’s suffocating, Jo!” Yuma throws his arms up, like he’s already exhausted every inch of this rhetoric, even though they’ve barely started. Like it’s a conversation that’s been had over and over again and Jo is the last to hear of it. “You’re suffocating in it, and you’re the only one comfortable acting like you’re not! You won’t even think about life outside of it because you’re too scared that you might be better off without it!”

Jo laughs incredulously. It’s a wet, uncomfortable sound. “You don’t have the right to decide that.”

Yuma scoffs unkindly. “Right, fuck me for caring enough to notice.”

“You don’t care, Yuma, you trample,” Jo argues. His voice is scratchy now, straining to pull out more words than he usually uses up in one conversation. “You barge into places where you don’t fit and—and you decide that you’ll stretch the room before you make yourself any smaller.”

“And why the hell should I? What gives you or anyone else the right to decide how much of me I can carry into a room?”

“Maybe I don’t have that right,” Jo agrees. “But don’t you dare stand there and judge me for knowing my place when all you do is try to pretend you’re bigger than yours.”

Yuma’s mouth opens without sound. He just stares a little, his frown a clear and painful disruption to the ease he walks around with. “You know what, Jo,” he says, quiet and sharp. “You said you weren’t used to people trying for you. I’m starting to see why they don’t. And I don’t think for a second they’re the ones giving up early on.”

Jo swallows the bile in his throat. He fights back every tear and desire to take it all back. “Then fucking call it, Yuma.” His voice shakes around his name. Every part of him knows better; it doesn’t stop him. “If my box is too small for you, then close the goddamn lid on your way out.”

Yuma just looks at him. He doesn’t speak again. He just keeps looking, waiting for the next line. Staring at Jo as if he’s waiting for this to be a bit. When nothing changes but the time, Yuma shakes his head and leaves without a word.

He slams the door on his way out and the walls tremble for half a second before it all stills. Jo misses his violence when it does.

As he tends to do, Yudai comes over unannounced. He has two cups of coffee in hand and just as many days worth of voicemails that Jo hasn’t listened to.

Jo doesn’t get out of bed to greet him. He just keeps lying there, watching his phone ring. It’s his father, then his mother, then his father again and again and again. Euijoo texts twice. Maki texts four times. And his father calls again and again and again.

Yudai turns the phone off before he can leave a voicemail. He puts the coffee down on the nightstand and crawls into bed behind Jo. “Big spoon or little spoon?” he asks.

Jo doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have the words to say and he wouldn’t waste them on this if he did. He just curls forward a little more. Yudai scoots in closer and holds him tighter, like he’s something that naturally fits there. He treats him as something precious and doesn’t ask any questions when Jo cries.

yuma 🎸

[draft] Hello.

[draft] Hey

[draft] I’m sorry. I don’t know what I wa

[draft] It wasn’t you. I didn’t mean what I said. I just don’t know what to do with

[draft] How can you even look at me? How can someone like you ever

[draft] I want to

[draft] I didn’t mean

[draft] I’m so sorry.

yuma 🎸

[draft] I was mean. I think I was scared, but that’s n

[draft] The tour’s started already, right? You must be gone by now. I wish I

[draft] I wanted to be there with you

[draft] I don’t know

[draft] Please keep trying. Don’t give

[draft] I’m so sorry.

Yudai lets Jo be silent and miserable for one night. He wakes him up the next day for breakfast and an explanation. Jo’s reluctant to participate in both, but he expended all of his fighting energy earlier in the week. Three days and a hundred unsent messages out from it, he feels no better.

It feels good to get it off his chest. Yudai has no poker face with Jo, so all of his reactions are cinematic masterpieces. He’s obvious about when he agrees and when he disapproves, and it’s much better than practiced silence. Knowing what Yudai thinks, good or bad, encourages him to keep talking, even though his throat hurts and his heart feels worse.

When there’s nothing left for Jo to say, he just shovels more rice into his mouth and waits for judgment. It comes slowly. Yudai chews on his words for several long seconds before he speaks. “Do you need me to tell you what you did wrong?”

Jo starts to shake his head, then falters. “It might help,” he admits.

Yudai’s mouth moves at the ends, like even that allowance is worthy of pride. “You got scared,” he says simply. “Not of Yuma or your dad. You were scared by the fact that you finally wanted something more than Kisuke’s approval. You saw something that asked you to stretch your limbs in the same room as the person who built your box, and you decided the safety of what you know was better than the idea of something bigger.”

Jo looks down at his food. He listens without objection. After a second, he offers a nod.

“Jo, I hate to say it,” Yudai sighs, “but that’s really fucking human of you.” Picking his head up, Jo blinks at him. Yudai just smiles in return. “Look at Maki—shit, look at me and Euijoo. Everyone gets scared when they want something different. We all want to run when what we want threatens to change our lives. Even the whole fight and all—” he waves his hand without translation. “That’s just how people are. It doesn’t make you a shitty person; it just means you panicked and had a shitty reaction.”

“Oh.” Jo starts to look down again then stops himself. He meets Yudai’s eyes. “I don’t know what to do. You and I have never fought before, so…”

Yudai drags out a hum, eyes listing away as he contemplates the situation. “We haven’t fought,” he agrees. “And I never want to fight with you, either. But it’s not like we just sit on our asses when things are bad outside, either, right? When Euijoo and I broke up and I didn’t leave my apartment for a week, or… hell, just yesterday, when you weren’t picking up your phone for shit. We weren’t fighting, but we still knew what to do, didn’t we?”

“Oh,” he repeats. Then he laughs, airy and low and not quite convinced. “He’s on tour, Yudai. I don’t think I can just drive over to him.”

Yudai lifts both brows and gathers another spoonful of rice. “Why not?”

Jo has never been on a road trip before. The furthest he’s ever gone out of his no name, nowhere town was the 5.2km bus drive to Yokohama for a high school field trip. He’d been one child among the many, excited to see what a busy city looked like. He’d never gone back and he’d never had any reason to go any further than that, either. His entire world resided in a pocket town that wasn’t even on the map, and it hadn’t made sense to consider going anywhere beyond it.

It’s a comparatively long drive to Tokyo. He’s lucky that he hasn’t missed this show yet, seeing as the next one is in Osaka and his brain can’t even conceptualize driving that far out. He’s already nervous on the road, fiddling with the radio and trying to find familiar voices that calm him down even when he’s ready to fall apart. He doesn’t hear Nico’s voice on the radio, let alone Yuma’s, but he finds another band that sounds similar enough if he turns the volume down to a whisper. The station keeps him company, even when that song and band flip over to the next one, a little less similar than the last. He can’t trick himself for long, but the voices start melding together and he stops thinking about it sooner than later.

Then he’s parked outside of the concert venue and staring at the physical representation of his many insecurities. The venue is more than double the size of the one back home, and the line outside seems to stretch for an entire mile. He has to park several blocks away and take pictures of his surroundings so that he doesn’t forget where his car is before he leaves. The line doesn’t look like it’s moved an inch by the time he shuffles onto its tail, though it’s certainly gained a few members. Jo bought a ticket at a stoplight an hour ago, so he knows the show isn’t sold out. The band isn’t big enough to sell out a venue of this size yet, and their merch isn’t anything remarkable, but that doesn’t stop the queued fans from wearing their dedication on their chests. There are tour dates on the back of t-shirts, instrument trinkets clipped onto carabiners, and member names written onto bare skin with glitter pen and washable marker.

Jo stands at the back of the line with the curled shoulders of someone who shouldn’t be there. Every time someone lines up behind him, he shuffles half an inch forward before stopping himself. He tries to convince himself that he deserves the space he’s occupying and searches for whatever confidence he held the night Yuma first approached him, when he stopped pulling his feet back so other people would have room. He tells himself that his existence isn’t something to be corrected with lines erased and redrawn into smoother curves. It’s an effort that rides on his shoulders all the way to the doors, then to the front of the pit.

Standing at the barricade is less thrilling without Yudai by his side. Jo checks his phone for a miracle, but all he sees are increasingly silly stickers meant to encourage. They work.

The show starts with dimming lights and shrieks that rattle Jo’s eardrums. He quiets a wince between his teeth and pulls his eyes up to the stage, searching for no one in particular, but he finds Yuma without even meaning to.

His hair is black now. Jo tries to remember if it was this color when he came over the other day, but he can’t even remember what he was wearing. It hurts to remember, so he doesn’t try too hard. He just watches the way Yuma’s smile fits across his face and how it changes the way his features sit; he looks like someone who was made to smile, so every moment without one is an affront to his very being. The shirt he wears falls off the shoulder and bares skin to a screaming audience, close enough for Jo to see, too. He doesn’t blush at the sight of it; instead, he thinks of an ugly beret of Yuma’s head and debates if he’s still allowed to smile.

He can’t begin to fathom what the view looks like from the stage. He doesn’t know how Yuma and the others can stand in front of so many unseen eyes without flinching or faltering, but they make it look effortless. The stage is their microcosm, and the five of them thrive off of nothing but each other and the sounds that they make. Every word from Nico’s mouth elicits a new roll of screams from the audience and he grins like it’s never enough. It isn’t. If Jo had thought, for even a moment, that the intimate building that first introduced them to him was built to hold them, then he knows now that he was wrong. The venue they perform in now has open seats, but they’ve already outgrown it.

Jo stands at the barricade and breathes in the vapors. He sings along to every song because they don’t deserve anything less.

The show isn’t long, but Jo feels tired when it ends. When the lights finally come up, every bone in his body tells him to get back in his car and get in bed, but it feels like a waste if he does. He doesn’t move at first, tempted to message Yudai for advice. He didn’t think this far ahead when he came here. He hadn’t given himself a chance, lest he think his way out of the car entirely. But he’s here now, and the show is over, and—

“Asakura-san?” A short woman with a gentle face calls for his attention on the other side of the barricade. She smiles at him when he blinks down at her. “Could you come with me? The band is asking for you.”

“Oh,” he says. He wonders if it’s fair to consider this another failure on his end. But he nods and slips through the crack she opens between metal gates. He feels the eyes of curious fans on his back as he leaves, and it’s a tiring, continuous effort not to bow his head and apologize for stepping beyond his boundaries.

The walk is short. He doesn’t track it well enough to know all the turns, but he passes an Employee Access Only sign along the way before stepping into a well-lit backstage of discarded ropes, props, and clothing racks. The woman leads him past it all with just a warning to watch his feet, then knocks once on a door before ushering him in. She’s closing the door behind him before he can turn to thank her, and his shoulders immediately jump from the loud cry of, “Jojo!”

He blinks, startled by the cheer in Taki’s voice and, what’s more, the echoed happiness on the other members’ faces. “Hi,” he says lamely.

“We didn’t know you were coming tonight,” Harua says around a beaming smile. His skin is coated with sweat, but it doesn’t make him any less dazzling up close. His chest still heaves from the work he put into the show, but he wears exhaustion well. It looks like something he earned with his own hands. “Did you like the show? Did you have fun?”

“I did.” He looks at the expectant faces peering back at him and offers an honest smile. “You were amazing. I’m jealous of the fans who knew you before I did.”

“Don’t be,” Nico says easily. “We’d trade at least fifty thousand of them for just one of you.”

“You’re not supposed to say that,” Fuma points out.

Nico waves him off.

Jo breathes out a bit of laughter before giving into the temptation to look at the one person who isn’t looking back. Yuma is engrossed in his phone, jabbing his thumb at the screen. Jo is oddly certain he isn’t doing anything at all but avoiding him. And he should take the hint; every inch of him knows that he should. It’s what he told Yuma to do. But there’s a voice in his head that isn’t his own and it’s telling him that he didn’t drive all the way out here just to take his own shitty advice.

The voice is awfully feline and has perfect pitch.

“Yuma,” he says across the room. “Can we talk?”

Everyone looks between them. Harua’s grin turns wild, proud. Jo doesn’t allow himself to look at them or think too deeply about how they feel. He just keeps his eyes on Yuma and waits. Even a no would be okay; at least that would be closure, more than some silent hint he’s expected to abide by.

Yuma slowly drags his eyes over to Jo. After two more seconds of silence, he gets up and walks past him out the door. Jo doesn’t know what that means, so he does what Yuma would do: he follows behind him. It’s only a short walk to the nearest empty room, but stepping into it feels like walking into something he isn’t properly prepared for. The soles of his feet ache on all of this foreign ground and he has to marvel at people who make a habit of never staying in one spot.

He marvels at Yuma, in all of his rock band, eyelined, scowling resilience, and he finally remembers to speak first. “You were incredible, Yuma,” he says. “You made this place feel so small. Like it was a miracle you somehow fit into it.”

Yuma doesn’t respond. He just keeps glaring. And it’s fair—Jo can accept being on the other end of this for once.

The silence of the room bounces back at him. The walls seem to tilt inward, waiting around for the next thing he has to say. Jo looks at them: the hooks nailed to the left of the cubbies, the light switch that’s flipped in the wrong direction, the pictures of staff and stars who’ve come here before. He thinks of how small this room is and how comfortably he could exist here.

“I am never going to catch up to you,” he thinks aloud. He sees Yuma shift, but he isn’t looking directly at him, so he doesn’t know what the shift looks like exactly. He just knows it happens; he feels the attention loosen around his neck. “I wasn’t lying, Yuma: you see what you want and you just take it with both hands. And I know you’re scared of it; I know it’s hard to never stop, but you don’t. You want something and you charge forward until you have it, even when everyone else is still lagging behind you.” He lets his eyes fall back to Yuma again and quirks the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know how to do that. I can’t even figure out how to let you want that for me.”

Yuma presses his lips together. Jo sees all of his arguments in his eyes, but he’s patient enough to not say them just yet. Maybe they both know that if Jo stops now, he won’t find the courage to start over again.

“I, um,” he says. “I can’t do anything right with my dad. I don’t even know how to talk to my mom. But I’ve spent so long trying, because it’s not like it’s hard. Just—” he breathes through the heaviness in his chest. “Stay in that town forever. Inherit the toy company. Get married, have a kid to pass it all down to. Die in the family home, get buried beside my parents and grandparents and everyone who came before me. Decompose in the same coffin that all Asakuras are laid to rest in.” He huffs out a laugh as he remembers being five and then eight and then twelve, watching as family members die of various causes, only to all be lowered into the earth in identical boxes. He remembers being twelve and measuring the length of his grandfather’s coffin while his parents spoke to the funeral director, committing to memory the exact number of centimeters that could fit onto the padded floor.

He remembers being sixteen and hating how quickly he was growing. He would sleep in a tight ball in hopes that his limbs wouldn’t outgrow the hook of his elbows. Scared that one day he’d wake up and he wouldn’t fit into his grandfather’s coffin anymore.

He clears his throat and blinks the memory out of his eyes. “You’re right, I don’t try very hard. I don’t decide on things. I don’t stand my ground. Your concert was the first I’d ever been to—and tonight was the second. I’ve never even taken my car out of town before. I did think I was going to live and die in that stupid box, and I still think so. But you’re so big, Yuma, I don’t even know how we were born in the same town. I don’t know how you looked down from that stage and somehow found me.” He meets Yuma’s gaze and lets out an incredulous breath. “And I feel like a piece of shit for making you try.”

“Making me—”

“And the scariest thing,” he continues before he loses his nerve, “is that you made me try, too. I stopped giving up space at a party because I was sharing it with you. I got kicked out of an art gallery because I liked laughing with you too much. You colonized my weekends and my quiet, and I let you.”

Yuma’s face softens. Or maybe it did that already and Jo’s only just now catching up to the fact. “Then you drove an hour and a half out of town and came to the show by yourself.”

The hair on Jo’s nape rises at the reminder of how far he’s stopped out of line. He still nods. “And I didn’t run away.”

“You didn’t,” Yuma agrees. “So what, Jo? Does that make everything okay? The fact that you were freaked out?”

“No,” Jo says. “It just makes me human. It makes me a really scared, stupid human. And a really sorry one, too.” His eyes fall for just a moment before he remembers to pick them up. “I’m sorry, Yuma. I’m sorry for lashing out at you and making you try harder than I did. And I’m sorry for not reaching out after we fought.”

“Stop saying you made me do things,” Yuma demands, scowling again. The irritation doesn’t reach his eyes. “You didn’t make me do anything, Jo. I tried as hard as I wanted to. I said that I would and I’m going to keep doing it, because that’s what I want. And stop acting like we broke up or something.” His scowl falls with a sigh. “I know it scares you, Jo. Fuckin’ obviously. And it scares me, too. And we’re both just trying. Yeah, you were an asshole that night, but it’s not like that’s who you are all the time. I knew you were having a bad time when I walked in, so even if it hurt, I wasn’t taking it all the way personally. You’re right, you were stupid. But I was, too.”

Jo tries not to smile just yet. He mostly fails. “I think I was worse.”

“If you want that championship title, take it. But I’m not going to hold it against you forever,” Yuma says. “I was hurt then and I’m still hurt now. But I still like you, Jo. I’m not going to stop trying just ‘cause we fought. I’m going to sulk and I’m going to get over it and I’m going to piss you off a hundred more times.”

“Just a hundred?”

“I’m just talking about my plans for the week.”

He fails entirely, and he can’t even hide the smile by ducking his chin. “Okay.”

Silence lingers only for a beat before Yuma says, “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have said what I did, either—about people not trying.”

Jo shrugs. “You couldn’t just stand there and take the punches. I didn’t want you to.”

“Stop being noble and let me apologize.” Yuma pushes his shoulder, but it’s halfhearted. Jo only moves because he wants to. The energy falls again, resting at a placid, durable baseline. “I’m not going to stop moving towards bigger things, Jo. I want it too bad.”

“I know,” he says. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

“But I’m not going to leave you behind, either.” Yuma meets his eyes, too, a determined heat sitting within them. “I’m not asking you to pack up your life and hit the road with me. I’ll come back again and again. You’ll find me at your doorstep a million times before I give up. But you can’t get scared off every time.”

“I won’t,” Jo promises. “And I won’t stay there forever. I don’t think I want that. I’m not asking you to wait for me, just… if you can’t come back, send postcards. Blow up my phone. Give me a shoutout. Leave a trail of every place you go so that when I’m finally ready, I know where to find you.”

Yuma’s breath stills in his throat for just a second. Then he asks, voice smaller than he’s ever been, “And you’ll come?”

Jo stands there in a city that’s much too big for him, miles and miles away from the box he measured as a child. In front of someone whose shadow is already twice his size and whose determination is that much bigger, he finally renegotiates space in the opposite direction. “I’ll come,” he promises.

Yuma brightens fully and all at once. He steps forward, closing the distance between them in two quick strides, and Jo is the one to kiss him first.