Chapter Text
- Gojo POV -
Morning light seeped through the thin hotel curtains, soft and pale, the kind that never fully committed to brightening a room. It settled over the tangled sheets and the faint smell of perfume that clung to the air like a reminder of choices he never thought too deeply about. Gojo lay on his back, eyes half open, listening to the muted hum of the city outside. The tour had dragged them through three countries in two weeks, and every morning felt like waking inside a dream that refused to end.
A woman shifted beside him, her hair spilling across the pillow in a dark wave. He tried to remember her name, but the memory slipped away as easily as the night before. He didn’t feel guilty. He rarely did. These encounters were brief, uncomplicated, and quiet in their own way. They filled the hours between concerts and rehearsals, between the noise of the stage and the silence that followed.
He stretched an arm above his head and stared at the ceiling. The hotel room was the same as all the others. Neutral walls. A carpet that had seen too many suitcases. A minibar that Shoko had already raided the night before. The band lived in a cycle of travel and performance, and he had learned to stop expecting anything different.
A sharp knock broke the stillness.
“Gojo. Wake up. Practice in twenty minutes.”
Shoko’s voice carried through the door with its usual dry amusement. He could almost picture her leaning against the frame, cigarette tucked behind her ear, hair tied up in a messy knot that somehow suited her better than any styled look ever could.
He sighed and nudged the woman gently. “Time to go.”
She blinked awake, confused for a moment, then gathered her clothes without a word. He watched her move around the room, quiet and efficient, as if she had done this before. Maybe she had. Maybe they all had. When she slipped out the door, Shoko stepped aside to let her pass, raising an eyebrow as she disappeared down the hallway.
Shoko entered the room without waiting for permission. She always did. She surveyed the scene with a slow sweep of her eyes, taking in the sheets, the empty bottles on the nightstand, the clothes scattered across the floor.
“You’re unbelievable,” she said, though her tone held more amusement than judgment. She picked up a half-finished drink from the table and sniffed it. “Yaga will kill you if he finds out you’re starting the morning like this.”
Gojo sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “Yaga won’t find out.”
Shoko laughed, a low sound that carried the rasp of too many cigarettes. She dropped onto the edge of the bed and lit one now, letting the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling. “He always finds out. He has a sixth sense for your stupidity.”
Gojo grinned. “That’s because he worries too much.”
“He worries because you give him reasons to.” She exhaled a thin stream of smoke and flicked ash into an empty cup. “You’re lucky you can sing. Otherwise he would have thrown you off the tour bus years ago.”
He leaned back on his hands, letting the sunlight warm his face. “I’m charming. That helps.”
“You’re reckless,” she corrected. “And you drink too much.”
“So do you.”
She shrugged. “At least I’m honest about it.”
He laughed softly. Shoko had always been like this. Blunt. Unbothered. Loyal in a way that never needed to be spoken aloud. They had spent countless nights drinking together after shows, sitting on rooftops or backstage floors, talking about nothing and everything. She never asked why he slept around. She never asked why he drank. She understood the pressure that came with fame, the weight of expectations that clung to him like a second skin.
The Gojo family name carried a history he had never wanted. Tradition. Duty. A path laid out long before he was born. They had expected him to follow it without question. Instead, he had chosen music. He had chosen the stage. He had chosen a life that made him feel alive, even if it came with chaos and exhaustion and mornings like this.
Shoko stood and stretched, her joints cracking softly. “Get dressed. Nanami is probably already downstairs. He’s in one of his moods.”
Gojo groaned. “He’s always in one of his moods.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Nanami appeared in the doorway. He paused, taking in the state of the room with a look that could have curdled milk. His eyes narrowed at the clothes on the floor, the bottles, the faint scent of perfume that still lingered.
“Gojo,” he said, voice flat. “This is unacceptable.”
Gojo lifted a hand in greeting. “Morning, Nanamin.”
Nanami ignored the nickname. He stepped inside and began picking up discarded items with the precision of someone who had long since given up expecting better. “We have rehearsal in fifteen minutes. Yaga is already irritated. You are not helping.”
Shoko snorted. “Told you.”
Nanami shot her a look, then returned to gathering the mess. “You need to take this seriously. The tour is not an excuse to behave like a child.”
Gojo watched him with a lazy smile. “Relax. I’ll be ready.”
“You said that yesterday,” Nanami replied. “And the day before.”
Shoko leaned against the wall, smoke drifting from her lips. “Let him be. He’ll pull himself together. He always does.”
Nanami placed a bottle on the table with a controlled breath. “One day he won’t.”
Gojo stood and stretched, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders from the night before. “But today isn’t that day.”
Nanami shook his head and stepped back toward the door. “Ten minutes. If you’re late, I’m telling Yaga.”
Shoko flicked her cigarette into the cup and grinned. “See? Sixth sense.”
Gojo laughed again, softer this time. The room felt lighter now, even with the mess still scattered around. This was his life. Imperfect. Chaotic. Filled with people who cared in their own strange ways.
He moved toward the bathroom, the floor cool beneath his feet, and caught his reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at him was familiar and distant all at once. The idol. The performer. The man who belonged to the world every night on stage.
He splashed water on his face and let the cold sink into his skin.
Another day. Another city. Another performance.
And somewhere ahead, a story he didn’t know was waiting to begin.
The rehearsal studio occupied the highest floor of a tall building in Osaka, its wide windows stretching from one end of the room to the other, letting the morning light spill across the polished wooden floor in a pale wash that softened every edge it touched. The city below moved in a quiet rhythm, muted by the height, as if the world had been placed behind a pane of glass. Inside, the air carried a blend of scents that had become familiar over the years. There was the faint sweetness of incense someone had burned the night before, the clean bite of metal strings, and the warm undertone of wood that had absorbed countless hours of music.
Gojo stepped inside with the slow confidence of someone who had walked through this doorway more times than he could count. His head still felt heavy from the previous night, but the room itself had a way of waking him, as if the walls remembered every song they had ever played and whispered them back in fragments.
The space was already alive. Cables curled across the floor in looping patterns, their dark lines weaving between amplifiers that hummed softly as they warmed. A tuning fork vibrated somewhere near the back, its thin note lingering in the air like a thread of silver. The room felt warm, not because of the temperature, but because of the people inside it. They moved with a familiarity that came from years of shared stages, shared mistakes, and shared victories. Silence between them never felt empty. It felt lived in.
Gojo paused near the doorway and let his eyes travel across the room.
Shoko stood near her guitar stand, adjusting the strap with a slow, practiced motion. Her expression was unreadable, though the cigarette tucked behind her ear hinted at her usual impatience with mornings. She had a calm that came from never caring too much about anything that didn’t involve music or alcohol, and a sharpness that appeared only when she played. She gave him a small nod, the kind that acknowledged his presence without making a fuss, and he knew she would tease him later for arriving at his own pace.
Nanami sat behind the drum kit, tightening one of the snares with a level of focus that bordered on meditative. His posture was straight, his movements deliberate, and his attention fixed entirely on the instrument in front of him. He carried himself with a quiet discipline that had always set him apart from the rest of them. Even in high school, he had been the one who arrived early, the one who stayed late, the one who believed that music deserved respect. He did not look up when Gojo entered, but Gojo knew he had noticed. Nanami always noticed.
Utahime sat at the piano, her fingers gliding across the keys in a gentle warmup that filled the room with soft, drifting notes. She played with a precision that came from years of training, each movement controlled and intentional. When she sensed Gojo’s presence, she looked up and met his eyes with a cool stare that held no warmth. Her gaze narrowed slightly before she returned to her playing. The tension between them was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability, like a ritual neither of them bothered to question anymore.
In the corner, Yaga sat with a stack of papers spread across a low table. His assistant hovered beside him, pointing at schedules and contracts while Yaga rubbed his temples with a tired hand. He looked like a man who had aged faster than he should have, though Gojo suspected he was responsible for at least half of that. Yaga had always been the one to hold them together, even when they made it difficult.
This was Limitless, the band that had begun as nothing more than an after school club in their second year of high school. Back then, they had played in empty classrooms with borrowed equipment, their voices echoing off chalkboards and plastic chairs. Their first song, Glass Horizon, had been recorded on a cheap microphone they had propped up on a stack of textbooks. They had uploaded it online without expecting anything, laughing at how unpolished it sounded.
Within a month, it had gone viral. Within a year, they were performing on stages they had only ever dreamed of.
Gojo felt a small smile tug at his lips as he remembered those early days. They had been so different then. Laid back. Reckless in a harmless way. Focused only on making music that meant something to each of them. They used to sneak out of classes to practice together, slipping through hallways with their instruments hidden under their jackets, laughing at the thrill of breaking rules for something they loved. They used to argue over who got the good amp, who got to choose the next song, who had to carry the heavy equipment. They used to sit on the school roof after practice, sharing snacks and talking about nothing important, feeling like the world was small enough to hold in their hands.
Those moments felt distant now. Fame had changed things. Not in a dramatic way, but in a slow, creeping shift that dimmed the spark they once carried so easily. They still loved the music. They still loved each other. But the weight of expectations had settled over them, and the joy that once came effortlessly now had to be protected.
Gojo walked further into the room, stretching his arms above his head. Utahime’s eyes followed him with thin irritation, her expression tightening as if she could already sense he would be a problem today.
“You are late,” Utahime said, her voice cutting cleanly through the soft murmur of instruments warming up. The piano keys beneath her fingers stilled, leaving a faint echo that drifted through the room like a reprimand.
Gojo smiled at her, bright and unbothered. “I am fashionably late.”
“You are irresponsible,” she replied, her tone flat and precise, as if she were stating a fact rather than an insult.
Shoko let out a quiet snort from across the room. Nanami did not react, though Gojo caught the subtle tightening of his jaw, a small sign of irritation that only someone who had known him for years would notice.
Gojo walked toward the center of the room, where his microphone stand waited like an old friend. The metal felt cool beneath his fingers. He adjusted the height, testing the weight of it, letting the familiar sensation settle into his bones. The room seemed to shift around him, the scattered sounds of tuning and quiet conversation fading into a gentle hum.
Gojo briefly glanced to his left and his gaze caught on the empty space where the bass once stood, a quiet corner that had held more life than any of them could ever put into words. The stand remained there out of habit, polished and untouched, as if waiting for hands that would never return to it. The sight drew a familiar ache into his chest, the kind that settled slowly whenever he allowed himself to look for too long.
Hanami had stood there once, tuning the bass with slow, thoughtful movements that always seemed to calm the room. Their presence had been a steady anchor, a gentle force that balanced the chaos Gojo often created. They had spoken rarely, but when they did, their words carried a warmth that lingered long after the conversation ended. Hanami had been the sunlight of the group, bright in a quiet way, soft in a way that made everyone else feel safe.
They had lost him years ago, just as the world had begun to notice them. The tragedy had come without warning, a moment that split their lives into a before and an after. It had been symbolic in a way none of them liked to talk about, as if the universe had taken something precious from them the moment they stepped into the spotlight. Fame had arrived hand in hand with grief, and the two had tangled themselves into the band’s history so tightly that they could never be separated.
Nanami had taken it the hardest. He and Hanami had been inseparable in those early days, two halves of a rhythm section that breathed in perfect unison. Gojo remembered how Nanami used to laugh more, how his shoulders had been less tense, how his eyes had held a softness that had slowly faded after Hanami was gone. The guardedness he carried now had not always been there. It had grown in the space Hanami left behind.
They had never replaced him. They never even discussed it. The idea felt wrong, as if bringing someone new into that space would erase the memory of the person who had believed in them more fiercely than anyone else. Hanami had always said the band would go far. He had said it with a certainty that made the others believe it too. Gojo knew he would have been proud of how far they had come. It was just a shame he could not see it.
Gojo let his gaze linger on the empty stand for a moment longer, feeling the familiar pull of nostalgia and loss. Then he looked away, letting the memory settle quietly in the back of his mind, where it always lived.
Nanami tapped his drumsticks together, grounding Gojo back to reality, the sharp clicks marking the beginning of rehearsal. Shoko strummed a few chords, letting the sound ripple through the air in a smooth wave. Utahime’s piano wove through the music with delicate precision, each note placed with intention.
As Gojo closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him, he envisioned Hanami joining with a steady rhythm, his bass line grounding the melody with a calm presence. When he began to sing, his voice rose with a warmth that filled the space, shaping itself around the melody with practiced ease. The band moved with him, each member responding instinctively, as if they were all connected by a thread that tightened and loosened with every shift in the music.
“Gojo, you missed that cue,” Utahime said sharply when he drifted a beat too early.
He opened one eye and grinned. “I was improvising.”
“You were being careless,” she corrected.
Shoko laughed softly. “Same thing, really.”
Nanami tapped the drumsticks against the rim of the snare. “Again. From the bridge.”
They started over. The music swelled, rising from soft harmonies into a powerful crescendo that filled the room with a vibrant energy. Gojo felt the familiar rush of performing, the way the sound vibrated through his chest and settled into his limbs. It was the one place where everything made sense.
Between songs, Shoko leaned back on her heels and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “If you keep missing cues, Utahime is going to throw her piano at you.”
Utahime glanced at Shoko with a pink tint to her cheeks. “I do not throw things.”
“You throw insults,” Shoko replied.
“That is different.”
Gojo offered a quiet laugh, with a wide grin. “It is still throwing something.”
Utahime pressed a key with unnecessary force. “I am surrounded by children.”
Nanami cleared his throat. “Focus. We have limited time.”
They returned to the music. The hours stretched on, marked by repetition and small corrections. Utahime glared at Gojo whenever he drifted off rhythm. Nanami adjusted the tempo with calm authority. Shoko cracked jokes that made the tension ease.
By the time they finished, the air felt thick with heat and effort. Gojo wiped sweat from his forehead and dropped onto a nearby chair, letting his body sink into the cushion.
Yaga stood from his corner, clearing his throat. The sound carried across the room with the weight of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. “We have a conference tomorrow morning. Be prepared. The press will be expecting answers about the new album.”
Gojo groaned loudly, letting his head fall back. “Do we really have to do that?”
Yaga fixed him with a look that held no patience. “Yes. And you will behave.”
Gojo slouched further in his chair. “It is going to be boring.”
“Stop complaining,” Yaga said. “You are the face of this group. Act like it.”
Shoko smirked behind her guitar. Utahime rolled her eyes with a sigh that sounded almost rehearsed. Nanami nodded in agreement, his expression unreadable.
Gojo lifted his head slightly. “Can I at least pretend to be sick?”
“No,” Yaga replied.
“What if I actually get sick?”
“You will not.”
Gojo sighed dramatically. “You never let me have any fun.”
Yaga crossed his arms. “Your definition of fun is the reason I have headaches.”
Shoko laughed. “He is not wrong.”
Utahime closed the piano lid with a soft click. “We should all rest. Tomorrow will be long.”
Nanami began packing his drumsticks into a neat case. “Agreed.”
Gojo stretched his arms above his head, feeling the familiar ache settle into his muscles. The room had quieted, the earlier energy fading into a comfortable stillness. He looked around at the others, the people he had grown up with, the people who had shaped his life in ways he rarely acknowledged aloud.
Despite the complaints, despite the exhaustion, despite the weight of fame that pressed on all of them, he felt something warm settle in his chest. This was home.
“Drinks tonight,” he announced, brightening instantly. “To celebrate surviving another rehearsal.”
Shoko raised her hand without hesitation. “I am in.”
Utahime lifted her keyboard case. “We have an early morning.”
“Come on,” Gojo said, leaning toward her with a hopeful smile. “One drink.”
Nanami crossed his arms. “We should rest.”
“One drink,” Gojo repeated, drawing out the words as if they were a promise. “Just one.”
Nanami sighed, the sound long and resigned. “Fine. One.”
Gojo clapped his hands together. “Perfect.”
They packed up their equipment and left the studio, stepping into the warm Osaka evening. The streets were alive with movement, neon signs flickering to life as the sun dipped behind the buildings. The air carried the scent of street food and the faint sweetness of summer flowers from a nearby vendor.
People recognised them almost immediately. A few whispered excitedly, their eyes widening as they nudged their friends. Some approached with shy smiles, asking for photos or autographs. Gojo obliged with practiced ease, offering a charming grin to each person who gathered the courage to speak to him.
One girl approached with trembling hands. “Gojo, could I have a photo with you?”
“Of course,” he said, crouching slightly so she could fit into the frame. “Make sure you get my good side.”
Shoko rolled her eyes. “As if you have a bad one.”
When the girl left, Shoko nudged him with her elbow. “It is as if we do not exist.”
Gojo laughed. “You exist. Just not as beautifully as me.”
Utahime muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like an insult, while Nanami pretended not to hear it.
They reached a small bar tucked between two tall buildings. The sign above the door read Moonlit Lantern, painted in soft gold letters that glowed under the warm lights. The moment they stepped inside, the scent of grilled fish, soy sauce, and fresh beer wrapped around them like a welcoming blanket. The interior was dim, lit by hanging lanterns that cast gentle shadows across the wooden walls. The bar counter gleamed with polished lacquer, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the space.
A waiter approached, his eyes widening when he recognised them. “I am such a big a fan,” he said, bowing slightly. “Please follow me. I will take you somewhere private.”
He led them through the main seating area, where a few patrons glanced up in surprise. Some whispered to each other, their eyes following the group with a mixture of awe and disbelief. The waiter guided them to a quiet corner tucked behind a wooden partition, where the lighting softened and the noise faded into a gentle hum.
They settled around a low table. The cushions were comfortable, the air warm with the scent of sizzling food from the kitchen.
“What are we ordering?” Shoko asked, already reaching for the drink menu.
“Beer,” Gojo said. “And lots of it.”
Nanami sighed. “One beer.”
Shoko grinned. “Three beers.”
Utahime shook her head. “You all are children.”
Shoko rested her head in her hand, staring deep into Utahime's eyes. "Well children can't drink, so we can't possibly be children."
Utahime suddenly looked very flushed, and quickly averted her eyes without another word slipping her lips. Gojo watched with amusement, as Utahime's little crush on Shoko has been so obvious for years.
They ordered a spread of dishes. Plates of karaage arrived first, the crispy chicken steaming as they pulled pieces apart. There were skewers of yakitori glazed with sweet sauce, bowls of edamame sprinkled with salt, and a large platter of takoyaki that Shoko immediately claimed as hers. The drinks came next, tall glasses of cold beer that glistened under the lantern light.
Gojo lifted his glass. “To surviving another day.”
Shoko clinked her glass against his. “To alcohol.”
Utahime clinked hers reluctantly. “To the... band.”
Nanami raised his glass with a small nod. “To all of us.”
They drank. They talked. They laughed.
The lights that hung above them grew in intensity as the night darkened, painting them in a golden glow. Gojo teased Utahime until she threatened to throw her chopsticks at him. Shoko made jokes that grew funnier with each drink, her laughter ringing through the private corner. Nanami maintained his calm demeanor, though Gojo caught the faintest hint of a smile when Shoko teased him about his tie.
By the end of the night, Shoko was leaning heavily against the table, her eyes half closed and her words slurring together.
Nanami sighed. “She is drunk again.”
Gojo grinned. “We should help her back.”
Nanami lifted her arm over his shoulder while Gojo supported her other side. Shoko mumbled something about wanting another drink, then tripped over her own feet, nearly taking Nanami down with her. Gojo laughed so hard he had to stop walking.
“This is not funny,” Nanami said, though his voice lacked real anger.
“It is a little funny,” Gojo replied.
They managed to get Shoko to her room, where she collapsed onto the bed without removing her shoes. Nanami adjusted the blanket over her with a resigned sigh.
Gojo patted his shoulder. “You are a good man, Nanamin.”
Nanami closed his eyes briefly. “Goodnight, Gojo.”
Gojo left the room and walked down the quiet hallway toward his own. The hotel felt still, the distant hum of the city muffled by thick walls. When he reached his room, he closed the door behind him and let out a long breath.
He undressed slowly, dropping his clothes onto the chair near the window. The cool air brushed against his skin as he pulled on a loose shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up his phone, scrolling through social media without much thought.
There were posts about the tour. Photos from fans who had spotted them on the street. Rumors about the new album. Speculation about his love life. He skimmed through it all with a detached curiosity, feeling the familiar mix of amusement and exhaustion settle over him.
He set the phone aside and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioner.
Tomorrow’s conference drifted through his mind. The flashing cameras. The repetitive questions. The forced smiles. He already felt tired thinking about it.
He closed his eyes and let the thought fade.
The performance mattered. The music mattered. The rest was noise.
And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, a faint unease lingered, like the first tremor of a story that had not yet begun.