Chapter Text
Cheers reverberated through the venue—a tightly-packed, sweaty room. All eyes on the “CHUUYA” logo appearing on the screen behind the stage, before Chuuya himself walked on, guitar swung low and black leather reflecting the red and blue spotlights shining down on him.
“How’re y’all doin’ tonight?” he rasped into the mic, leaning forward with a signature grin, so practiced he could do it in fucking tears.
The venue was technically on the Jewels’ new blacklist. Technically. After the initial escalation—fuelled solely by Chuuya’s Twitter activity—please god save him from his phone—Ace had backed off, for now. There was a reason for that, obviously. Interference by something, or someone, who no deity could save him from. Even after the fight, he had the world’s sleaziest guardian angel on his shoulder like a fucking curse.
The crowd chanted his name, some hand hearts held up high above it, and Chuuya signalled to his drummer, Tachihara, to start. A lanky guy, coincidentally ginger, with a permanent scowl that only eased when he was too wasted.
Tachihara started the intro and Chuuya strummed some cords with feigned nonchalance, as if testing the sound. He stopped, letting a beat of anticipation build up.
“This wouldn’t have been possible without my lovely sponsor,” he muttered, the sarcasm thick in his tone, “I ain’t talking about Jewels here.”
With that, Chuuya jumped into the first song, growling out the opening line.
Before the show, he had been on Tachihara’s pull-out couch, some scratchy blanket thrown aside.
“It’s not exactly Wilshire boulevard, but hope you managed,” Tachihara teased, throwing him a budweiser.
Chuuya snorted. “Don’t even start. I’m not that far gone. I survived in a tour bus with your ass for months.” He cracked the can open. “Your couch’s fine. Thanks, for real.”
“Anytime, dude. Someone’s gotta keep you sane and it’s not your sugar daddy.”
“You—”
“Kidding. Mostly.”
Chuuya ran a hand down his face, sighing. Worst part was that he couldn’t even defend himself. Dazai liked to reach for the check.
“Timing, right? My apartment’s lease just ended last week and then this shit.”
“Shouldn’t have moved in with the bastard. It’s been, what, a month?”
Chuuya bristled at that. “Two months.”
Tachihara was right, of course. But Chuuya couldn’t explain how little choice he’d had. It’s not like he’d been keeping up with the rent, and then his landlord had yelled at him so colourfully. Something like, “I don’t give a fuck whose dick you’re sucking, you scum are all the same in the end. I promise you, no one wants a dirty Chinese in their complex you ungrateful—”
Rent payments were the least of the reasons he’d moved out. Chuuya, of course, had started looking for a new place, because that was the normal thing to do. Except, Dazai had looked at him weirdly upon seeing him browsing Zillow, like the concept was foreign to him.
You know, maybe it was.
Turns out, Dazai thought it best Chuuya moved into the penthouse. A kind suggestion, were it not for the accompanied threat to his image and the fact that, as Tachihara had keenly pointed out, it had only been two fucking months since the Grammys. Chuuya couldn’t even tell him about how that first date had gone. Dazai didn’t exactly let him forget about the blackmail that wasn’t quite blackmail, because that required him to have actual information, and not just the threat of fabricating something. Nothing about it made it better.
Chuuya continued, “It’s been… fine. Living with him, I mean.”
“Mh-mm, sure. Until this happens.” Tachihara gave him a look.
With “this”, Chuuya was pretty sure he meant Dazai throwing a tantrum. And, to a man who had delusions about owning his boyfriend, a tantrum meant kicking him out and freezing the gifted credit card.
“He’s looking out for me. With the Jewels bullshit,” Chuuya insisted, raising his voice. Distractedly, he crushed his empty can.
“Don’t tell me he’s bullying Ace. I might actually have to respect him if he is.”
“I don’t know, but we got the gig tonight.”
That caused a silence to fall. He hadn’t meant to let that tidbit slip. Ace was his manager, his problem. Tachihara had nothing to do with it as a touring member, so Chuuya hadn’t kept him in the loop of what exactly had been going down behind the scenes. As far as this was “behind the scenes”, all things considered. That meant Tachihara knew about what had been made public, but not the exact clauses, the blacklist, and Dazai’s involvement.
“What do you mean?” Tachihara asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Dazai has been… involved. PMG, y’know? It wouldn’t hurt his bottom line if he merged with Jewels.”
“Or if you signed with PMG,” he filled in, understanding the implication.
Chuuya nodded. They’d been arguing about it for weeks, always managing to circle back to the topic.
“Ace is really trying to break me down. Cancelling shows, making my life hell, and whatever. But, I guess, Dazai is the one who’s throwing his weight around to make tonight happen.”
Tachihara didn’t respond to that. Chuuya shrugged.
“Let’s just head out. Gotta clear my fucking mind,” he said.
“Yeah. Man, you are in the weirdest soap opera.”
Or a psychological thriller. Who knew anymore, with Dazai and his bandages? CEOs were all psychopaths anyway. Fingers crossed Chuuya’s story didn’t end with him being fucking murdered.
He drank in the applause like it was his lifeline. He was halfway through the set. With a final chord and a mock bow, the performance—Kick-Shoot—ended. His most streamed song. Obviously they loved it.
“Fuck, man,” he muttered, barely audible over the cheers. With flourish, he grabbed a bottle of water from a stool near where Tachihara sat. He could do these things sober. If he really wanted to. He sighed. He was arguing with Dazai even in his head.
The water was almost lukewarm, but damn his throat needed it. Whenever he had shit to deal with before a show, it was harder to hold back his energy on stage, to listen to his body’s limits. Frying his vocal chords was better than smashing up private property, though. Credit where it’s due.
Though, that restless energy drained once he turned back to the crowd, hands grabbing the mic stand. Somewhere in the centre of the venue was some commotion, someone yelled out, but Chuuya couldn’t make out the words. Some people shifted, pressing against each other. His mouth was right at the mic, but he found himself hesitating before continuing. He could feel Tachihara’s eyes on him, always a tad judgy—what’s the hold-up?
He didn’t know either. Just the feeling that this venue, the place where he was supposed to be in his element, turned suffocating. He opened his mouth, then closed it again when he scanned the crowd once more.
“No fucking way,” he deadpanned. The mic picked it up for everyone to hear.
At the edge of the stage, Dazai stood in a black button-down, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his fringe casting a sharp shadow over his face underneath the harsh lighting.
No bodyguard around. This was suicidal, even for him.
Chuuya looked back at Tachihara before grabbing the mic from the stand. It wasn’t really a conscious decision—not many things he did were—but he stepped forward towards his not-sugar daddy and yanked off his earpiece.
Dazai had the nerve to look smug.
By now, the crowd had created space around him, as if intimidated. Most of the audience knew something was up now, whispers travelling even to the back. Chuuya crouched in front of him, the movement fluid like any other performance, and repositioned his guitar to rest against his side. If Dazai wanted to come here, Chuuya would make it public. The microphone in his hand was the little power he had here, knowing he controlled the narrative if nothing else.
“You’ve got good energy tonight,” Dazai said, just loud enough for only Chuuya to hear.
“No thanks to you.” Chuuya’s voice boomed through the speakers. Let them see this. It was disaster tourism.
Leaning in closer, Dazai rested his elbows on the stage. “I beg to differ, Chuuya. You can admit it.”
“Getting on my nerves isn’t something to be proud of,” Chuuya spat out, “What are you doing here?”
“Checking up on investments.”
The casual detachment Dazai always carried with him. It didn’t hurt, but it was stupidly unfair. Dazai was the one who’d asked him out on a date. He was the one who’d threatened him into a relationship. He was the one who was obsessed with owning Chuuya.
He had no right to act like it meant nothing to him. After flipping Chuuya’s life upside-down like a tornado coming through town. That was the thing, wasn’t it? They were doomed from the start, because no one expects a natural disaster to play nice. That wasn’t possible. Chuuya had known that. Dazai must’ve, too. And yet, here he was, acting like this wasn’t just one symptom of a deadly disease.
Chuuya glared at him. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“I’m not. I wanted to see you. Make sure you’re not lying in a ditch somewhere.”
“Really?” he drawled, “I can handle myself without you. Have been doing that for years just fine. So what is it? You couldn’t go a day without staking your claim?”
“Are you bothered, darling? Or is this what you thrive on? A perfect opportunity to play the victim to your adoring fans.” Dazai pointedly glanced at the mic. The crowd had fallen silent by that point, phone cameras capturing every second.
“Fuck you! You have no fucking right to say that!” Chuuya snarled and threw the microphone down. The feedback rang through the venue, a piercing sound probably scaring the shit out of everyone.
As if he fucking wanted to live like this.
“Chuuya,” Dazai began, softening his voice, “All I’m saying is that I’m not some monster you’re trying to run from… Unless I’m wrong?”
Chuuya scoffed. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“Well?”
He took in his surroundings. Tachihara stood at the back of the stage, a security guard by his side. The crowd’s anticipation was basically palpable. No matter what Chuuya did now, this would be trending. And he wasn’t planning on taking any brave stand tonight.
Dazai’s cocky grin hadn’t faltered. God help him.
Without another word, Chuuya leaned forward on his toes, grabbing the collar of Dazai’s ridiculously expensive shirt and kissing him. Blood rushed through his ears and his face flushed, all the frustration from the past day pouring into it. He pushed, teeth grazing over Dazai’s lips and forcing him to let him in like the only goal was to make Dazai lose his breath and suffocate.
Instead, Dazai matched his energy, pulling at the leather of Chuuya’s outfit. Chuuya let himself be dragged down, landing on his knees and bent over—his back arched provocatively—to meet Dazai’s eye level from where he stood below the stage. Chuuya let a soft groan slip as he felt the many eyes on him. Even more when this would make headlines.
“You’re awful,” Chuuya said, breathlessly, when he broke the kiss.
People cheered, snapping pictures with their flash on. He hadn’t even heard it break out.
Dazai’s wetted lips gleamed, his face also sprinkled with red. His dark eyes a bit wilder now. “You stay,” he said, “Always.”
When Chuuya rose back to his feet, he swayed unsteadily. He swiped the mic from where it had rolled to, near the black curtains behind one of the speakers. Dazai stayed in his peripheral vision, still leaning against the stage.
Chuuya attached the mic to the stand, using it as support until the room stopped spinning. Reminder—he really wasn’t drunk this time. “Apologies for the interruption,” he muttered, voice low and rough, but with a victor’s smile. Not that he’d won anything good.
Tachihara rolled his eyes. His fans revelled in the drama, already picturing how they could say “I was there” to anyone who’d listen. The security guard he’d spotted earlier had now made her way over to Dazai, who seemed to convince her to take him backstage. Starting a fight and potential scandal didn’t matter when he had his stupid charm, apparently.
Once Dazai had disappeared off to the side, some of the tension ebbed. No, Chuuya was not imagining how much easier it was to breathe without his presence. Genuinely something unholy possessed that man.
Did this count as conflict resolution? Not an apology had been uttered, nor had Dazai brought up the whole “cutting him off” thing. Chuuya sighed, blowing some stray hairs out of his face. A tornado. No expectations. This was how they functioned. They were disastrous and toxic and a mess in a way that rivalled the entire music industry.
Chuuya hadn’t exactly chosen Dazai, not without coercion, but damn he was in it. Like how he’d tried to keep the Flags together even as the ship was sinking. Or how he’d clung to venues like this one, the ones close to his heart. Even if Ace despised it.
That didn’t justify shit, but here he was, publicly making out with the big bad wolf. “Dumpster fire” didn’t quite cover it. “Nuclear disaster” fit better. But no one else in years had been such a constant in his life like Dazai was. Even if that constant was a rhythm of fighting and screaming.