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Neku can't be the only one who sees it, the way Joshua glows faintly along the edges of his RG form, but maybe flashing strobe-lights and intense spotlights from the stage distract from that. The audience is packed, laughing and singing along, flashes of cell phone screens and the sparkle of jewelry and sequins and glitter and it's an ever-moving, buoyant sea of pure emotions. It's an escape for everyone here, or maybe it's just a way for everyone to touch something more – something greater – than just themselves.
The club is packed enough that even up along the walls and on the supposed fringes of the crowd Neku's forced to stand right in Joshua's immediate space, back to chest, Joshua throwing him one fox-like smile over his shoulder. Even here no one else comes too near, although they flutter close like moths to a flame. Joshua has a tight rein on his own Music – Neku can't hear a thing – but the air feels lighter near him, the notes and the energy from the band burning brighter where Shibuya's Composer stands. The crowd pushes against Neku instead; he gets to be the human shield that barely separates Joshua from everyone else.
Lucky him.
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Neku yells, glancing at the stage and feeling his fingers twitch to the rhythm of the music despite himself, and it’s a good call when Joshua turns toward him; they’d be staring straight into each other’s eyes with scan inches between them otherwise, and even the thought of such intimacy makes a flushed shiver tingle down his spine.
The expression on Joshua’s face is equal parts curiosity and amusement, and Neku flaps one hand in his direction, dismissing the attention. He’s not going to lean over to shout words into Joshua’s ear the way most people – most couples, his mind helpfully fills in – are doing around them.
Joshua just arcs a perfect eyebrow in his direction and then his attention snaps away, eyes moving to track a pretty girl singing along in the crowd, utterly unselfconscious and deliriously happy if her closed eyes and smile are anything to go by. Neku wonders what he sees – what he hears – as the Composer, whether it makes a difference living this moment in the RG instead of experiencing it in the UG.
Light fingers brush against Neku’s and Neku startles out of his thoughts, glancing hurriedly in Joshua’s direction. Joshua continues watching the singing girl, the curve of a smile touching his mouth, and Neku blows out a relieved breath.
Why don't we up the ante, Neku?
Neku hears it like a call, quiet and very clear despite all the sound around them, and his next breath stutters in his chest. "What?" he says, the single word more or less swallowed up by the music and the heavy beats reverberating through the building, but Joshua tips his head, just barely looking at Neku over his shoulder, eyes slits of purple behind his hair.
Best get used to it, dear, we don't have time for practice. I don't have to explain why speech wouldn't work in this circumstance, do I?
The tone – in his head – is wry and amused, followed immediately by a flash of an image—they're in the heart of the crowd and the illusion of personal space Neku had scrapped together by staying at the edges of the club is completely destroyed here, heated breath and laughing eyes and Joshua's hand on the small of his back like a tattoo on his skin, but it's Shibuya's Music Neku's caught up in, louder and more complex than he has ever heard it.
It's Joshua's low laughter that breaks Neku from the mental image, leaving him shockingly cold and blinking rapidly at the flashing lights, the crash of drums and guitars sounding almost muted—
An Imprint. The bastard Composer imprinted all of that on him. Neku just stares, momentarily bewildered, and the only thing that stops him from socking the Composer in the face is that Joshua had framed it as a… suggestion, rather than an order. Didn't completely overwrite his will and all that, although Neku can still feel the ghost of heat and sweat lingering from the Imprint.
Oh Neku, I think I'm a little more persuasive than that. Charm over brute force, that's my style.
It's still weird to hear that voice so very clearly when Neku's staring at the back of Joshua's head, the Composer deliberating putting his back to Neku, a dare or maybe an open statement on how little he cares about the vaguely murderous thoughts Neku's entertaining.
Charm like a bullet to the chest, Neku thinks very loudly, imagines the words in bold, large font. He watches Joshua’s shoulders shake and imagines Joshua’s laughter, like quiet silvery peals of a bell echoing in the corners of his mind.
"I thought you didn't do the whole sweating thing," Neku shouts into the music; it's completely lost in the sound of it all but Joshua is reading the thoughts from his head anyway.
The Composer turns and slides one hand along Neku's collar, warmth ghosting against his skin through the thin fabric. Neku takes a step back, startled, but the Composer's deceptively light hold on him anchors Neku to the spot as Joshua leans in close.
"I do," he says into the shell of Neku's ear, "very occasionally make exceptions to my own rules when it works in my favour."
And then he’s spinning away, his fingers trailing across the tender skin of Neku’s throat as he goes, Joshua flashing him one last secretive smile before slipping through the dancing, writhing crowd. He goes the way he moves through Shibuya – graceful, effortless and fleeting like the beat of a butterfly’s wings, leaving storms of change in its wake.
There’s a blank in Neku’s memories, a jump in sensory input—he’s staring after Joshua one moment and the next is an impression of warm skin, slightly sticky with sweat; Joshua’s wrist, deceptively bird-boned in his grasp and Joshua’s eyes, startled wide for just one instant.
The world pauses, a little hiccup in time.
And then the familiar amusement sweeps back into Joshua’s eyes. He pulls Neku closer and it feels like Neku’s being wrenched forward so violently that a spike of pain shoots through him, although Joshua only has a light grip on his forearm, his other hand still clasped in Neku’s. The entire world spins, flashing lights and the relentless beat, but it's the accompanying surge of Shibuya's Music that threatens to knock Neku over with every chord, a beat and rhythm that travels inside his veins like he's a live conduit for it all.
Breathe, Neku, before you pass out, Neku hears, and slender fingers card through his hair before Joshua presses up and into him, kissing him and doing something, in that intangible Composer way of his, that makes the Music turn mellow, the energy of the band and the crowd now warm and soothing instead of wildly chaotic.
It gives Neku just enough room to gather his thoughts before Joshua moves in to take it all back; he swipes his tongue teasingly across Neku’s lips and Neku gasps, a startled, soundless movement that Joshua takes advantage of, pushing into his mouth and it’s – hard, to think – almost impossible, just snapshots of reality – hands cradling the back of his skull, now – his own hands, fisted so tightly in Joshua’s shirt that his fingers ache – the Music of Shibuya, circling them, feeding the sheer sensation of touch and emotions as much as it takes the same from them.
Joshua bites down gently on Neku's lower lip and pulls back, practically humming with satisfaction, and Neku can’t look away, the smirk doing nothing to hide the pretty flush that just barely colors Joshua’s skin, the way his lips glisten, wet, in the near darkness.
Neku's breathing heavily, a combination of adrenaline and holy shit kissing Joshua and the slightest buzz over his skin, prickly and not quite uncomfortable, like he's out of tune with the rest of the world—
And no one is even staring at them, two boys wrapped up in each other in the middle of a moving crowd.
Neku has to take a deep breath, and then another one when Joshua's eyes flutter half shut, studying him under silvery eyelashes.
"We're in the UG, aren't we."
"Just a little temporary frequency switch," Joshua murmurs, slinging his arms around Neku's hips, fingers splaying right where Neku's spine curves in. Neku feels his heart stutter, and then pick back up in double-time. "You’re still alive. There'll be more than just ruffled feathers and affronted frowns if I killed you again.”
Neku is so torn between strangling Joshua for real and just turning around and leaving – except he’d be stuck in the UG, damnit – that he ends up simply glaring murder as best he can from the two inches of space between their faces, an expression that amuses the Composer from the way he’s chuckling, soft and low.
"Well, that went more smoothly than I expected," Joshua muses. He’s definitely glowing, very subtly, leaving behind a soft blur of after-images as he moves, and Neku has to duck his head, glance away for self-preservation.
Because under the pure electricity of sensation are darker, more rational thoughts, circling the back of Neku’s mind—wary instincts that aren’t totally captivated and caught up in Joshua’s presence and the Music and Joshua. He’s thinking of cryptic riddles and smiles above raised guns, and the way Joshua always seems closest when he’s playing Neku the hardest, and he trusts Joshua, he absolutely does, but it doesn’t mean that Neku has forgiven him nor forgotten what’s been said and done.
Joshua is still beautiful, like this. It’s another thought that sticks and refuses to go away, even as Neku raises his head to stare directly into Joshua’s gaze.
There’s no point looking away; the Composer reads minds. And it should really bother Neku that he isn’t particularly bothered by this – that Imprinting and mind-reading are but additional illegal chess pieces in Joshua’s hand when Neku knows full well the Composer can just flip the entire board over.
Then someone’s glow-stick bedecked arm passes right through Neku’s shoulder and he flinches, twisting instinctively, and feels no resistance because Joshua lets go completely, hands falling back to his side gracefully.
The faint panic that buzzes at the back of Neku’s mind is a familiar companion, and it’s like a puzzle piece slotting into place. He’s in the UG, the last week he spent in the UG was a blur of fear shoved away to deal with later, and so now Neku feels almost right. And—yeah, it’s chilling, that people can full on walk through him again, even though they’re still moving unconsciously around the space Joshua occupies. It’s all the disparity of the UG without the heart-pounding “do or die” for distraction, and—how is he supposed to get back to the RG like this?
“Certifiable,” Neku says, edging away from anyone looks like they might put a hand or foot or torso through him. “You are absolutely certifiable.”
“I’ve burned the paperwork,” Joshua says, and at the back of Neku’s mind, the Composer’s voice murmurs, Notice the decal near the front entrance. You’ll snap right back to your proper frequency when you walk out.
Neku’s head snaps up; he’s tense, suddenly on the balls of his feet, his eyes flickering around the crowd. Who is standing there, relieved and a little freaked out that they finally exist to the rest of the world again, even if it’s just for a couple of minutes?
Who is fighting for their lives right now?
It’s not a Game week, he hears, and it’s not expressed in words, just a knowing that impresses itself upon his thoughts, subtle and very carefully done to avoid calling attention to itself, except—obviously, Neku.
He glances at Joshua, and Joshua isn’t watching him. Joshua’s eyes are closed, his posture relaxed, head tilted toward the swell of pounding music around them.
“Josh?”
“Did you enjoy yourself earlier?” Joshua asks, eyes still closed. His tongue licks at his lower lip for a second.
Neku’s mind stays peaceably quiet.
It still makes Neku’s skin prickle. Not in a bad way—he feels a little feverish, all quick, flickering thoughts and confused impressions. He’s almost glad to be free from Joshua’s electric gaze; he has enough to puzzle out, layers upon layers, unspoken conversations beyond the one they’re having out loud and the one happening in his head.
It’s mad, they’re both mad, but Neku’s gaining a reputation for it now, and Joshua’s never been anything but.
“…yeah,” he says, and Joshua’s eyes flick open.
“Hmmm,” Joshua hums under his breath, and it’s a strange thing—Neku sees Joshua’s lips purse lightly around the sound, and hears it half aloud and half in his head. The Composer holds one hand out. “You should come here.”
“Yeah, no,” Neku says flatly, crossing his arms for emphasis. “I don’t care if no one can see us, they’re still here. What happened to playing at being normal?”
“This is normal. Think of it as – ah, a scene change. My way of pulling you into a private corner or a dark alleyway.” Joshua leans back, his smile both coy and self-satisfied. He curls the fingers of his outstretched hand. “Don’t worry, dearest. I’m walking you home safe and sound now. I did promise.”
Neku eyes him, and irrationally misses the feel of pins warming in his palm. “You could just let the decal do the job.”
An arched silver eyebrow. Only Joshua could pull it off. “Really, Neku? You’d rather trust your fate to a little wall paint?”
It’s always, always in the tone—Neku wouldn’t do it for anything but the smug and bossy not-suggestion, pitched slightly higher for maximum annoyance but still regal for it. It tends to make him react without thinking – snapping back in annoyance, or turning away to more fully ignore the Composer’s latest brand of insanity – but this time he’s fully aware when he steps forward, sighing quietly, but still dropping his hand into Joshua’s.
Joshua tangles their fingers immediately, tight and warm and damp with sweat, one perfect sensory moment. “Mission complete,” the Composer says very softly, and then they’re off.
The crowd parts imperceptibly before them, the club an impression of flashing lights and sound at the periphery of Neku’s vision; his gaze is caught on the quarter profile of Joshua’s face that he can see, tugged along in Joshua’s wake by their clasped hands. It should be terrifying, to freely give the Composer such liberty and instead it’s more cliché than a stupid love song, that even for all the – Neku ducks his head at the thought – kissing and tonguing they’d been doing earlier this feels so much more intimate.
The decal at the entrance glows bright and obvious now, the world beyond oddly monochrome with shadows thrown into stark relief, the UG at night like one big outdoor night concert. Joshua stares out into the streets, his eyes warm with affection and his expression pleased, and it occurs to Neku that while he finds the UG strange and overwhelming and associated with far too many bad memories – although there have been good ones, too – to Joshua, it’s his entire existence.
Literally.
Ready? the question echoes at the back of Neku’s mind, and Joshua’s hand stays steady around Neku’s, neither clinging nor letting go.
Neku glances back at the tableau of the UG. He takes a deep breath, curls his fingers to return the clasp, and puts his trust in Joshua once again.