Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 3rd, 1975
Brooklyn, New York
Days on Tour: 1

****

So this is America, he thought. Spangled and bright.

From his view on the strip of a shabby New York City sidewalk, where cigarette butts were crushed beneath heels and glass bottles were drunkenly shattered, two red doors lay stark in his vision. A quiet thump from inside their crimson venue reflected the boy’s timid heartbeat, and the neon sign above reflected in his dark eyes.

His camera bag shook beneath his tightened grip as he exited the yellow cab, not bothering to bow a well-mannered thank you. Because the neon sign - depicting the name of the roughed up building - was indecipherable to his foreign tongue, and added to his budding anxiety. The older man proceeded to interpret for him.

“‘Wild Side,’” Ibe called from over his broad shoulder. With a gesturing hand - the one that only just waved off the driver - he focused their attention towards a pinned list besides the door. “That’s the lineup for tonight. Here, see, Eiji?”

Eiji followed with timid steps, weaving through a four-person crowd that only just exited the smoky building. He wrinkled his nose at the unfamiliar smell that surrounded them before settling besides his companion.

“That’s the band we’re interviewing.” Ibe elaborated with a point. It was the fourth group down, and Eiji had to squint in order to read against the low lighting.

“Ah,” Those words were much more manageable. “That’s a strange name for a band.” He decided.

“Ask them about it,” Ibe checked his watch. “That’s what we’re here for.”

Eiji shrugged away the idea and looked around him. The group he had only just passed was wobbling away, clicking down the road in their glittery heels and leather loafers. Double daters, he thought. They must have been there for the earlier three shows.

“When can we go in?” Eiji asked, turning back around. He was curious as to what events transpired inside to make the girls’ mascara run and the boys to smile goofy - but perhaps that was just how all Americans looked. New York natives especially.

“Whenever Charlie gets here with our passes.” Ibe answered. He followed Eiji’s previous line of sight and watched the fumbling group attempt to hail a taxi. “Say, Eiji,”

“Mm?”

“Stay close to me, alright?”

Eiji nodded, though he wasn’t sure how content he was about following instructions. For while he didn’t willingly listen to rock music, he did unwillingly listen to Ibe. More often than he should.

They waited against the dark wall for a few minutes more, watching as another crowd filed in for the upcoming show. Eiji’s interest was now slightly peaked - this band seemed to be popular with a very rambunctious and youthful crowd. Were they all New York natives as well? With their loose beads and heavy boots and smeared makeup of stardust?

Americans must listen to Ziggy, too.

“Mr. Shunichi?”

Both heads turned towards a gallant looking man - whose orange hair shone bright against the neon sign - as he made his way down the grubby sidewalk. Ibe extended his hand with a confirmitve nod and a professional greeting. That must be the publisher, Eiji assumed.

He gripped his camera bag once more at the man’s expectant glance.

“Eiji Okumura, nice to meet you.” He introduced, cringing slightly at how easily his accent had managed to bleed through those well-rehearsed words.

“Charlie Dickenson,” The man introduced right back. “You must be the camera guy?”

Eiji nodded, a little sheepish at the informality. Guy.

“Perfect, alright.” Charlie pulled out two lanyards from his trouser pocket. Attached were two plastic IDs that caught the colorful light as they were passed around. “These just let you in to the backroom. Flash them to the bartender, too, and everything will be on the house. He’s nineteen, right?”

“Oh, we won’t be drinking.” Ibe assured. He looped the lanyard across his chest and Eiji followed suit.

Charlie shot them both a sceptic brow before shrugging his way to the door. “You listen to rock, Mr. Shunichi?” He breezed.

Ibe twinged slightly. “No, not really.”

Charlie smirked with a pull of the red wooden door. “Well, then you’re gonna want to drink.”

****

Only when the door clicked shut, trapping him inside the venue’s quiet greenroom, was Eiji finally able to breathe again.

The quick, weaving journey from the crowded entrance to the lightly packed backstage had been an excursion to say the least. The thumping Eiji heard earlier had been nulled due to the stage’s lack of players, and the crowd now mingled aimlessly with cups of amber liquid in their hands. There were men with long hair, women with shaved heads, and people who defined neither or both, all laughing and chatting in their wait for the upcoming band. That foul smell that Eiji recognized around the double daters now clung to the air like the city’s smog. Inescapable.

But he was starting to grow used to it.

As for the bar that Charlie alluded to - which was pressed against the far right corner opposite the stage - drinkers bustled around its semi-circle counters. An obviously young boy had even tried to bum a drink off him.

“Hey, can you buy me something?” He asked. His face had been intense, consequently freezing Eiji in his place. He blinked back down as the boy continued. “I’ll pay extra.”

“Sing, leave him alone!” A voice barked from the crowd. “Crack open a pop or leave.”

Ibe called from up ahead.

Eiji shot the boy a sympathetic expression before scampering off behind his companion. His head pulsed from all the excitement and smoke, and he couldn’t help the small smile appear on his quirking lips.

He was growing used to it.

So now here they were, unpacking all the mundane things they needed for the interview with settling breath. Ibe even made a joke about being too old for all of this, to which Eiji addressed with an amused smile.

He, however, felt too young. Naive.

“So,” Charlie started, flickering his gaze back to his own respective wrist-watch. “The band’s running a bit late, but that’s expected. Rockin’ kids, you know?”

“But don’t let that intimidate you.” He continued. “You’ve interviewed young bands before, right?”

“Yes,” Ibe assured. He was helping Eiji assemble the small camera - the one with the brown trim and quiet shutter. “This will be my fourth one for the article, but first for my assistant.”

“I see, well,” Charlie gave the naive boy a warm glance. “They don’t like adults, but I have a feeling they might like you.”

Eiji nodded once again, despite only catching about half of that sentence. His mind felt a little too dizzy to properly translate, and so he slid the strap around his neck to compose himself. Ground him.

They might like you.

“Get about one or two of the band in here, but save most of the film for the performance. Okay?” Ibe instructed in quiet Japanese. “There’s about twenty in the cartridge, so don’t feel bad about messing up.”

“Yes, sir.” Eiji answered. Like a well-trained dog, he bitterly thought.

Dizzy mind indeed.

While they waited, Eiji took the time to address this strange ‘greenroom’. He knew that it was just a phrase - a figure of speech for a language he didn’t quite understand - but the paint peeling walls that were graffitted and stained were every color but green. On one side of this stickered wall, a light brown couch was pushed up flush, dented from the lounging of all the previous bands. A corduroy armchair was snug up beside it as well, also obviously used.

Ibe had unfurled a fold-up chair across both of them.

Eiji had only just begun to decipher the mysterious stains on the shag rug by the time a startling click whipped his attention back up. The door was violently ripped open, and with it the sounds of jubilant laughter followed suit.

“Can I bum a light before this shit starts?”

Eiji never knew that smiles could be that free.

“Not my fuckin’ fault you lost yours.”

That hair could be that color.

“Piss off.”

He pressed himself against the obscene wall and dropped his startled gaze.

That eyes could be that green.

“Hello, boys.” Charlie started - slightly empathetic for Ibe’s future benefit. Five voices proceeded to greet him, all of which were either forcibly peppy or downright disinterested. Eiji struggled to pick out the individualism, for it all just blended into an angsty melody of youth.

The door clicked shut, locking the group’s clatter into the four quiet corners. Rustling and gentle bangs rang out for a moment as the band dropped their designated instrument cases by their feet.

“Well, there’s twenty minutes before soundcheck. Is that enough time, Mr. Shunichi?” Charlie professionally pressed. But before the directed question could be answered, a sarcastic voice piped up.

“I never need more than five.”

Guffaws followed the lewd joke. A fist collided with an arm in a ruffled sound of violence.

“More like thirty seconds.”

“Get a grip, Alex.”

Charlie sighed at the rising chatter that derailed expectations. He turned towards Ibe. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck.”

Ibe nodded, and Eiji heard the door open and close once more. Another silence eased its way in as introductions began.

“Hello, I’m Ibe.” There was a pause, and Eiji assumed that they all must be shaking hands. Wandering eyes proceeded to fall onto him. “This is my photography assistant, Eiji.”

Feeling a ridiculous amount of gazes land in his direction, Eiji lifted his head with a shy and polite expression. Easy-going waves and welcoming hello’s were exchanged from the colorful group, and for the first time since they clambered in, Eiji was truly able to look at them.

A stocky asian boy with bright hair, smirking beneath Lennon style shades. A chestnut-haired boy with his chest on display and a toothpick behind his ear. Two bustling opposites with matching ponytails, one round and dark and one scrawny and crooked.

Then there was the boy who refused to smile.

He had blonde hair, long and undoubtedly bohemian, that heightened the Americana attitude he rightfully sported. And despite that cold expression he wore so very well, those green eyes of rarity were glittery with interest.

He was cool. Even Eiji knew that.

“Mind if we sit on the couch?” The smallest boy asked - the one who wore overalls that were loose on his frame and rolled at the heel.

But before an answer could be given, the band settled themselves down anyway - sprawling against the dented couch, stretching their limbs in relaxation. And as he made his way towards that empty corduroy chair, that cool American boy of mystery muttered a low warning in Eiji’s ear.

“Don’t get the face.”

His breath tickled Eiji’s neck. He smelt of bergamot and tobacco and pine. He breezed away like nothing happened.

Dark eyes grew wide in response.

After settling in that flimsy fold-up chair, Ibe began with a polite cough and a flip of his scratch paper pad. He glanced around and noted everyone respectfully, jostling his pen around while doing so. His tape-recorder was already running.

He started like he always did. “Can I get everybody’s name and instruments?”

The bright-haired boy volunteered first, “Shorter Wong,” he said. He flicked his glasses down and gleamed across the brim. “Drums.”

The roll call proceeded down the line of the couch, tones passive and introductory - like AA meetings, someone jokingly pointed out. While doing so, they reached into their leather polyester pockets and pulled out zippos and paper-sticks. The room was then enveloped in the same smog that lingered outside.

“Alex.” The chestnut haired boy grumbled, a cigarette bouncing between his teeth. “Bass.”

“Bones,”

“Kong,”

“Hype-men.” They jinxed.

There was another laugh, raspy and collective, that was infecting Eiji’s smile. He had been watching all this unfold from the safety of the room’s far-left corner, privately memorizing everyone’s name and designated skill. Hype-men, he wondered. Did they not play instruments? Was that allowed?

Following the sound of Eiji’s airy chuckle, two green eyes glanced his way with another sideways stare. It was honestly quite impressive how intense those eyes could become - how easily they could pin someone to a wall. Eiji’s camera grew heavier at the sudden attention.

Accounting his purpose, he pulled the contraption upwards and fixed a few buttons on the complicated lens. That piercing stare flickered away once again.

Don't get the face.

“You two don’t play?” Ibe continued, addressing the hyperbole: polar opposite twins.

“Nah, we’re pals, though.” Kong explained. Bones violently nodded.

“Along for the ride.” He confirmed.

Shorter sighed. “We pick up a lot of strays.” He clarified.

A flash of white startled the hazy room as Eiji encapsulated the evening. Nineteen left in the cartridge.

Finally, Ibe then addressed the last unnamed boy with a friendly and expected gaze. “And you?”

The blonde turned his attention back onto the older interviewer, stretching out against the armchair while doing so. He reminded Eiji of a cat flicking his tail - warning off potential predators and invaders of personal space. This was his territory.

“Ash Lynx.” He scowled, courteous enough. He had a husky voice that confirmed his next statement. “Vocalist.”

That must be a stage name.

“Nah-ah,” Alex corrected, sitting up slightly. He waved his cigarette around like a nagging finger. “Put down hustler.”

“Or asshole,” Shorter added.

“What about frontman?” Ash reminded, words dangerous yet still quirking in scourged humor. He turned towards Ibe once more and shook off the joke. “Guitarist, too.”

Eiji perked his head up.

Ash noticed.

“So,” Ibe described the final boy with a crackle of his scribbling pen. He moved on. “This is your home venue, right? You all live in New York?”

“Mm,” Shorter confirmed. “We’ve been playing here for ‘bout a year. Been drinkin’ at the bar since we were… don’t put that down, actually. Off the record.”

“You’ll get us arrested before we even start the fuckin’ tour,” Alex nudged. Shorter flicked his ear, mumbling something about being a goddamn drunk since the goddamn age of twelve.

“Speaking of tour,” Ibe interjected - attempting to steer them back onto the designated topic. “What’s the schedule looking like?”

Expectantly, Eiji couldn’t understand a lot of things. But he knew how to decipher times - places and dates - and for some reason he thought those were important.

His camera lay limp in his hands.

“Play tonight, head out first thing after,” Alex shrugged. “Bounce ‘round a couple of cities. Our plan is to make it to the west coast by August.”

“How?”

“We got a van.”

“Shaggin’ wagon.” Someone added. Another ear flick.

Ibe smiled - either out of genuine amusement or forced pleasantries. “So are there any specific shows lined up? Or is it just to see the country?”

“Just free love, man. If they pay us, then that’s a bonus.”

Ibe nodded with another long scribble. There was a silence as the group waited for him to finish.

“So why August?” He eventually asked. “School?”

Mocking laughter erupted at the thought of dutiful education.

“Nah-h, we’re dropouts, man,” Shorter swiped a thumb across his nose and gestured it to the quiet blonde. “Pretty boy here turns eighteen on the twelfth, so we figured we’d celebrate in LA.”

Ash shot him a look that was sure to hold some sort of childish embarrassment beneath it - he was only seventeen, afterall. He proceeded to grumble towards Ibe’s report, spiking his obvious annoyance with a glare that concluded the interview.

“We should probably tune up.” He said.

“Ah,” Ibe checked his watch with an observant brow. “You’re right.”

“Why the name Banana Fish?”

All those various eye colors and expressions landed on Eiji like steady raindrops, splashing his face with individual shock. He squirmed against the storm, gathering courage to elaborate.

“J.D Sallinger?” His tone was tipping into a pitiful conviction, much to his restraint. He attempted to scrape together the English translation of the book he read in school, the one in which he assumed the band had named themselves after. “Uh, ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish?’” He recalled.

“Yes.”

Eiji looked back down to the boy with the husky voice - to Ash Lynx. There was a charmed expression in those eyes, one that Eiji couldn’t help but melt into. No one’s ever guessed the name right.

Cool.

Ash eased away from the chair and wiped that placid expression off his face - he wasn’t one to be so transparent with his surprise. Ignoring the obvious looks shot in his direction from his bandmates, he spoke into the room.

“Let’s tune.”

****

“Where in the East you from?”

Eiji looked up, eyes wide from the sudden attention. “What?”

Shorter smiled, still working on that half-rolled spliff. The two were leaning against the designated wall, watching as the other’s fiddled with their instruments in a musical clatter. His drumsticks were poking out of his back pocket, for there wasn’t much he could tune.

“Eiji’s a Japanese name, right?” He continued. A dull rhythmic thumping exceeded out of Alex’s unplugged bass. “Where in Japan are you from?”

“Oh,” Eiji caught on. “Izumo.”

“Big city?”

He shrugged. Shorter widened his grin.

“Welcome to the nightlife, then.”

“Aye Shorter!” Alex interrupted. He clutched his black bass beneath him. “Have you seen my pick?”

Shorter groaned and pushed himself off the wall, digging around in those vast pockets while doing so. The two began arguing about ‘wrong’ and ‘right’ picks, all while Eiji settled back into the familiarity of isolation, for Ibe was busy chatting away with Bones and Kong for extra pieces of information.

Leaving only Ash to be one for conversation.

He had plucked his guitar out from it’s beaten case almost immediately, and despite the indents on the fretboard from years of use, the instrument itself seemed polished and new. Well loved, Eiji thought.

The body was an ombre sunburst - a bright orange middle, bleeding into a dark edged maroon - that caught the fluorescent lights above spectacularly. There were decals, similar to a violin’s or cello’s, hugging either side of the pearly pickup. Six golden strings ran up the sleek checkered frets, to which Ash individually plucked until the notes were deemed satisfactory.

He held the guitar so naturally. Intimately. It practically melted against his chest.

Eiji placed his camera down and walked over.

“Is that an electric guitar?”

Ash looked up from between a tussle of blonde bangs, his fingers hesitating over the thickest string and designated tuning peg. A crease formed between his brows as he settled his posture.

“Meaning?”

His tone dripped in an obviousness that made Eiji internally crumple - of course it was electric. “Ah,” He explained. “I’ve never seen one up close.”

By now, Alex and Shorter were glancing in their direction with expectant eyes, watching as their tough frontman addressed the timid photographer. The pause in the bass’s pittering caused the other three to look over as well, leaving the next question to be heard by everybody’s shocked ears.

“Can I hold it?”

Eyes grew wide and blonde brows quipped. He shrugged.

“Sure thing.”

Eyes grew wider as Ash Lynx stood, carrying the instrument between it’s base and neck like a fifth limb. He looped the leather strap, the one that was intricately decorated with hippie suns and geometric shapes, off his body and onto Eiji’s own. It was a tad looser against the shorter boy’s chest, so Ash proceeded to adjust Eiji’s fingers until they rested in a comfortable position across the wood.

He was acutely aware of everyone’s surprised stares, though he didn’t seem to care. He never did.

“Wow!” Eiji exclaimed, undeniably happy. He awed the sleek instrument with sparkling eyes and careful grips of uncalloused hands. He didn’t even bother to touch the strings. “It’s really heavy.”

Ash watched with an unreadable expression, hands dug casually into his flared pockets. He took them out once again as Eiji gestured the guitar back.

“Thanks for trusting me with it.” He said, voice still light with excitement. He ducked his head out of the strap and ruffled his hair in the process. He didn’t look as clean, now.

At some point between this musical exchange, Ibe had rustled his way over. He placed a hand on Eiji’s now-free shoulder and flustered between them and the American. He proceeded to apologize profusely, for even he knew about the singer’s short temper.

But to everyone’s observant surprise, and for the first time that night, Ash’s lips quirked up. It wasn’t a very genuine smile, but even the smallest gesture of joy seemed to light up the room. A sun, Eiji realized. He was staring at the sun.

The sun turned back around with a tsk.

“You’re such a kid.” He said.

****

Ibe had allowed Eiji one drink. Just one.

“Don’t tell your mother.” He warned from over his own copper bottle. He swung it back with an impressive arch, coaxing Eiji to wonder how often the older man indulged in his vices.

They were nestled in yet another corner, though this one was darker and dirtier and far less obvious, drinking their bitter beers and watching the venue thicken. A soundcheck was happening above stage - an occasional snare beat, buzzing microphone, miniscule bass riff that varied in volume - signaling to the sparkling crowd that they would be starting soon. Anticipation coiled itself around the corrupted lungs of youth and laughed it’s way back out.

Adding to the congenial atmosphere, the obvious familiarity between the crowd and band - that proved Shorter’s earlier declaration of playing here for years - rose like the smoke above their heads. Eiji watched those cloudy whisps dance across the low-hanging ceiling with interest, wondering if that particular vice tasted as strange as it smelled.

Perhaps it was the alcohol that made him think like this. He took another sip.

The bright lights above the stage was the only thing illuminating the tightly packed venue, and it seemed that Ash absorbed about half of their beams. His celestial presence proved itself true - every flip of his blonde hair shimmered like stardust, and his half-done button-up billowed like a supernova. A boyish American sun, it seemed. No wonder he was the frontman.

And when that hair flipped for a final time and the wirey microphone stand was given one last adjustment, Ibe gave Eiji a look.

“Do you want me to take the photos?” He asked sympathetically, his voice rising to a shout in order to be heard. He eyed the camera around Eiji’s neck. “You’re going to have to get pretty close to get anything good.”

“No,” Eiji nearly interrupted, unable to hide his eagerness. He placed his half-chugged beer in Ibe’s hand and uncapped the lens. “I’ll do it.”

A crackle rang out around the room like thunder. “Check, check.”

Eiji practically whipped his head up to the noise. On stage, Ash was leaning against the flimsy stand with folded hands, nodding in confirmation to his friend’s behind him. A few cheers left the crowd in an anticipated response - things were about to start.

Eiji didn’t even give Ibe a second glance. That was goodbye.

With shaking fingers, he kept the camera close to his chest and weaved through the bustle of drunken bodies. Due to the close proximity, Eiji was positive he had picked up on every girl’s rosy perfume and on every boy’s citrus cologne in passing. And in another muddled thought of tipsy excitement, he hoped it all would cling. He wanted to smell like the way American’s do when they’re high, or in love, or in crowds. He wanted the scents of this wild country to embed itself in the stitches of his sweaters and in the strands of his hair. It was already in the veins of his heart, anyway.

By the time he skidded his brown loafers - that were far too clean - to a stumbling hault, his camera had kissed indents into his palms. He was trembling. He was sure of it.

And with his eyes still wide with ecstasy, Eiji strained his neck upwards to gaze upon the three shadows onstage. One shadow in particular gleamed back down from his place in the make-shift universe - the center. The sun.

He carried stardust with every step forwards. He pressed his lips against the mic and drew in a silencing breath.

And then he sang.

Perhaps it was just a trick of the stage lights, or the inebriation of that amber liquid, but Eiji swore he saw it.

He swore Ash Lynx smiled for the second time that night.

****

“No, no,” Alex barked, his toothpick bouncing around his lopsided frown. He smacked Bones’s hand away with an annoyed strike. “Put the case sideways, dumbass.”

Bones grumbled and shifted the heavy plastic upright, nestling it between the tied up drum-kit. Alex gave a satisfactory nod to the tetris-like crowding before turning towards Ash.

“Alright, give me yours.” He gestured.

“Sits up with me.” Ash rasped lowly - more so than normal. Sweat glistened off the bridge of his temple as he made his way to the side of the van, his beaten case swinging by his right-hand side. Alex shrugged and closed the trunk with a slam.

“Good turn out tonight.” Shorter noted from his loitering stance. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slipped the camping flask into Ash’s own. “Rest easy, Morrison.”

Kong poked his head out the open van door, eyes bright and searching.

“Y’all were rockin’ tonight!” He praised. Bones bundled by his side in agreement.

“Lynx especially, eh?” Alex teased, nudging a provoking elbow to the taller boy’s rib cage in passing. Ash shot him a look from over the canteen, remaining characteristically silent to the collective praise. He took another sip.

“I wonder why that is.” Shorter hummed.

Ash shifted his gaze across the venue’s parking lot with a fading-post performance high. The orange glow of the nearby streetlamps caught the lingering glitter in those green eyes.

It was a really good performance.

“So when’s that article 'posed to be published again?” Kong ironically asked - not knowing about the silent taunt that Shorter had just given their singer. “I wanna see those pictures, man. We’ve never been photographed before.”

“Tomorrow.” Alex answered as he clambered in behind the wheel. Clanging could be heard from his position as he adjusted the seat and scourged for a map.

Bones grew giddy. “That fast?”

“They type it up tonight and print it in the morning, dumbass.” A rustle of paper. “Hey, how the fuck do you read street-maps?”

Shorter groaned. “Jesus Christ, let me drive.”

“Mm. That’s probably for the best.”

“Fucking illiterate.”

“Watch it.”

“Guys,” Ash grumbled, his stoney exterior finally cracking in annoyance. “We’re not even on the road yet and you’re already…”

His tired voice trailed away into a quiet shock. Everyone twisted their heads to follow his wide-eyed line of sight, where a figure seemed to be scampering it’s way across the dimly lit parking lot.

Ash pushed himself off the van as the body neared.

“Well,” Shorter whistled in recognition. “Look who it is.”

The heaving boy skidded to a halt, breath running in his own panting melody of song. The five members waited in buzzing anticipation - similar to the one the crowd had sported - as the boy caught his composure. When he finally did speak, it came out an airy laugh.

“Need a photographer?”

Bones and Kong grew ecstatic at the prospect. Alex chuckled. Ash was still wide-eyed.

“Does Mr. Shunichi know about this?” Shorter asked, though it looked like he hardly needed to be convinced. He tilted his shades down and peered across their brim.

“No,” Eiji straightened. “He doesn’t.”

“You run away from him, then?”

A nod.

“How?”

“Bathroom window.”

Shorter threw his head back with a surprised laugh. Now that Eiji pointed it out, the tear in his pressed pants seemed to have come from a narrow and clumsy climb. The thought nulled Ash’s shock and replaced it with amusement.

“Well,” Shorter eased with a trailing sigh. “You passed initiation, then.”

“Initiation?” Eiji asked. He was still huffing from his sporadic escape.

“We’re all run-aways, man.” Kong explained.

“Lost boys.” Alex dutifully piped up. His toothpick swayed beneath his teeth. “That’s the only requirement.”

There was another nod and pittering silence as Eiji swallowed. He seemed to be connecting those implied dots.

“So I can go?” He asked.

Communicative looks were exchanged at the proposition. Eiji watched, clutching the camera by his side with a red knuckled grip. His ears were still ringing, but perhaps that was just his hope blinding his senses.

Shorter was the first to declare him fit. “We got the room.” He shrugged.

Bones followed suit. “You gon’ take photos, right?”

Eiji nodded.

“Then we’re down.” Kong answered. Alex popped his head out the rolled down window for the second time.

“If he wants to sleep in a van and shower once a week, who’s to stop him.” He flicked his toothpick onto the pavement. “I’m down with it.”

Expectant heads all swiveled to the stone-faced frontman, searching for a last opinion to settle the score. On Eiji Okumura’s trial of arrival, Ash Lynx was decidedly the final judge to the jury.

The frontman, vocalist, guitarist, and run-away closed the space between him and the Japanese photographer. His voice crackled like thunderous gravel, strained and well-used from song.

“You sure, kid?”

Eiji’s expression melted into something warm - something hopeful. It was the same one he had sported when he held that beloved guitar, or when he first looked up at the sun-speckled stage. He wasn’t exactly sure why this scrappy Brooklyn band changed his view on this country, but there was one thing he was absolutely sure of.

Infact, he was never so sure about anything in his entire life.

“Take me with you.”

Chapter Text

June 4th, 1975

Boston, Massachusetts

Days on Tour: 2

****

Eiji was awoken by the fluttering thump of a newspaper landing on his chest.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Shorter jeered, peering down at the drowsy boy from his flipped down shades. He watched with an amused smile as the hazed photographer blinked against the early morning light. “Sleep well?” He asked knowingly.

Eiji managed a slow shake of his groggy head. Shorter chuckled.

“Welcome to the tour life,” He shrugged. “That crook in your neck will be there ‘til August.”

Scraping together a weak sense of consciousness, Eiji looked around the cluttered rows of empty polyester and then to the gravel parking lot outside. It wasn’t the same one he had fallen asleep in.

“Where are we?” He croaked.

“We’re a couple stops away from Boston,” Shorter answered, eyeing the backseat blonde who was still virtually dead to the world. He finished the sentence with a sympathetic expression shot in Ash’s direction. “Massechusettes.”

Eiji hummed - he had no idea where Massachusetts was - and pulled himself up on his elbows. The newspaper crackled against his chest in the process, and he addressed it with a widening stare.

“Oh,” He muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eye with one fist and inspecting the print with the other. “The article.”

“Uh-huh,” Shorter eased. By now, he had taken out a crumpled pack and lit up, a nonchalance wrapping around his easy movements. Cool.

“That old man painted us in a good light,” He continued, lips bumbling from the cigarette’s position. He smiled between the smoke. “Bones bought all the copies in the stand. I think he’s gonna scrapbook ‘em.”

Eiji smiled back, though it was starting to feel a little strained. Not only was he unable to read the complicated English Ibe skillfully wrote with, but he had been fairly convinced that the older man would be cursing the band’s boyish existence. Perhaps he had been too rash in his goodbye.

Sighing, Eiji sat up, pushed down his guilt, and succumbed to responsibility.

“Is there a payphone?”

The metal box of communication was mounted against the building’s brick wall, right across the yards of loose parking gravel. In fact, Eiji could still see the half-open van as he tried to decipher which coin was a quarter.

After landing on the designated cent and slipping it in the slot, he realized he only knew one number to call. The agency.

“Just in case we get separated.” Ibe had explained, repeating the ten-digit code once more for Eiji’s memorization. This had been said in the campy JFK airport, adding to the list of information the wide-eyed boy had to remember.

Eiji sighed through his nose at the memory, punched in the buttons, and pressed the buzzing phone against his ear. If this wasn’t separation, he wasn’t sure what was.

“Journalism department,” A crackling voice piped in after two consecutive rings. Fluttering parchment and banging ink-machines could be heard in the background of the call as the morning rush continued to affect the bustling agency.

“Charlie?” Eiji clarified, barely recognizing that gavant voice beneath the clatter. There was a pause, a light chuckle, and a muffling sound - as if the phone had been shushed by a palm.

“It’s the kid!” Charlie called. The voice became clear once again. “You’re in some deep shit, guy.”

There was a succession of rushing footsteps. He swallowed.

“Eiji?!” Ibe practically yelped as he hastily intercepted the call. The runaway suddenly had the likeliness of a scolded two-foot child, helpless and blinking at the authoritative adult.

“Hello.” He squeaked back. Where had his bravery gone?

A relieved and dramatic sigh dragged across the other end. “Thank God,” Ibe muttered. “Thank God.”

That familiar and senseless guilt crawled back into Eiji’s gut, and the tear in his trouser leg mimicked the one in his heart. Despite his impulse decision that he refused to regret, he still clawed onto obedience and crutched against responsibility as a force of habit. He’d been an adult his whole life, it seemed. Everyone expected that.

“Sorry,” He managed with scraped conviction. The grimy phone was practically pressing indents onto his ear due to his stern grip, and his voice dropped into a desperate whisper. “I had to go.”

“Where are you?” Ibe demanded, his paternal anger finally poking through his worry. Eiji closed his eyes and bit back another sigh.

What state did Shorter say? “Boston?”

Eiji yanked the phone away from his ear as a deafening clatter crackled out. The landline must have been dropped.

He continued to hold the payphone at a comical distance as scolding Japanese jumbled out of the faded speaker. To be honest, Eiji was a little impressed that the older man even knew the meaning to all those curses. He must be banned from churches.

While he waited for the older man’s sporadic episode to fizzle out, a distant crescendo of footsteps approached the photographer’s earshot. He turned his head to the sound of shuffling gravel.

Ash, obviously disheveled from sleep, sauntered his way over with slow intentions. His hair was ruffled and his shirt had become undone, but even so, he looked like a textbook-definition rockstar. His eyes squinted against the midday light as he glanced at Eiji and the poised phone.

“Taking it well?” He asked lowly, voice deep and pitched like the gravel itself. Eiji shot him a look before settling back into place.

Ibe finished his rant with a shrill. “How did you even get there?”

“I left with the band.” Eiji responded in his native tongue - Ash was now leaning against the nearby wall, loitering and obviously listening.

“So you’re going on tour with them?” Ibe correctly assumed. There was an accusatory spike in his voice. “Why?”

Eiji thought. “I don’t know,” He decided honestly.

“You need to get home,” Ibe instructed after another long sigh. “I will pick you up in Boston.”

Eiji straightened. “I’m not going back.”

“I’ll explain to your mother that we decided to stay another week.”

“I’m not going back, Ibe.”

“We can reschedule flight dates in advance, so there won’t be any charge.”

“I said I’m not going back-!”

Click.

Shit.

Blushing at the realization that his last declaration had been said in understandable English, Eiji inspected the silent phone as it greedily beeped for another quarter. He decided that the situation called for an indulgence in this new language.

“Shit.”

A chuckle lapped up the pittering silence. Eiji glared to his left.

“Eavesdropping is rude, you know.” He mumbled, digging around his pockets while doing so. Ash shrugged and picked himself off the wall.

“M-hm.” He said. “I need to make a call.”

Eiji blinked. “I’m not done.”

“I’ll be quick,” He sniffed, easing the phone away from Eiji’s weaker grasp anyway. Much to his vocal restraint, the smaller boy was discarded to the side without a second glance.

Ash hesitated a finger over the rows of numbered buttons - perhaps it would be two glances. He turned in realization, “You got a quarter?”

Eiji cursed for the second time that day and reluctantly reached into his pockets. He couldn’t believe the sun was just another cocky American teenager, one whose vibrant rays were drenched with warm conceitedness. He wasn’t sure what he expected from a seventeen-year-old star, but at the very least he assumed the boy had loose change.

He slipped the coin into Ash’s impatient hand.

“Stellar,” The sun mumbled sarcastically, clanging the silver into the slot. His voice was still strained from the previous show, and it lacked any pleasant dramatics. “Owe y’one.”

Eiji looked forward.

The parking lot was surrounded by northern pines, ones that looked like they belonged on ‘Wish you were here!’ postcards. Eiji made a mental note not to fall asleep across state lines - he wanted to see this country for its entirety, pine trees and all.

The clean air had subsequently perked everyone’s spirits, so while Shorter stole a smoke and the two bickering boys made their calls, the rest of the band enjoyed a quiet breakfast inside the gas-station diner. Eiji’s stomach rumbled at the thought - he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. He hoped Ash would be quick.

“Ah, hey,” Ash eventually answered. An intruding Eiji was taken by surprise at the softness in that usually gruff voice.

“Are your folks home?” He continued. There was a high-pitched crackle on the other end. “Can you hand the phone to your old man, then? Thanks, Micheal. You too.”

Another stretch of silence. Eiji scuffed his shoes against the pavement and counted the parked cars.

“Well hello to you to, fuckin’ geezer.”

There was the Ash he knew.

“You got a paper with you?” He grumbled, tone a little spikier than normal. Must be talking to an adult, Eiji assumed, for he sounded like he did in the interview. “Uh-huh. Back column.”

There was a long pause as the other line buzzed with a deep voice.

“We’re in Massachusetts right now,” A light sigh. “Enough, I’m fine. Yes, I got gas money on me.”

Eiji turned with an accusatory stare - so he wasn’t penniless. Ash looked over his shoulder to meet him.

He smiled.

It wasn’t the smile he had given Eiji last night - sparkling like the upstage lights, charmed and impressed. This was meaner. Boyish. It made his next words imprint themselves on the dents of Eiji’s heart like pressing palms.

“We picked up another one,” Ash said. “But I don’t think he belongs here.”

A rosy embarrassment crept up the alluded boy’s face, painting his tan skin with an apricot hue. Ash hummed at the sight and turned back around, exceeding an incredibly venomous energy while doing so.

He was so different in the morning light, Eiji realized. Distant, unobtainable - a true star in that sense.

Galaxies were between them.

“Gotta go, machine’s callin’ for a quarter,” Ash mumbled after a few more hums of one-sided conversation. “Uh-huh. Tell your old woman the goddamn punk says hi.”

Eiji watched with a flickering expression as the boy exchanged his ill tempered goodbyes, which were rushed and blatantly insincere. He farewelled with a click and a turn.

The phone was then offered up to its original user, cutting through the empty space by an extended hand. With a hooded gaze, Eiji stepped forwards and took the other end, but Ash’s grip remained tight in its place.

Dark wide eyes met glistening green ones, and brown loafers scuffed forwards as Ash tugged. Demeanors and personal space were invaded with a low mumble.

“Eavesdropping is rude, you know.”

The sun still smelt like all those distinct pleasantries - tobacco, bergamot, pine - but now they lay beneath the haze of the venue’s lingering smoke. He was smoke himself, it seemed. Elusively mean and smothering.

But Eiji’s lungs were healthy.

Sick to death of crutching onto responsibility, and even more so with obedience, he faced Ash with a defiant expression. Because above all the predisposed expectations of who he should or shouldn’t be, he was stubborn, not scared.

“You still owe me a quarter.”

Green eyes flashed with amusement.

Promptly, Eiji and the phone were released with a stumble of shifted weight. Ash dug his now-free hands into his pockets and sauntered off, knowing all too well that he was being elusively mean. He purposefully brushed Eiji’s shoulder in passing just to make those assumptions clear.

“Put it in on my tab.” He said.

Eiji didn’t turn back around.

****

“Soundin’ good, Lynx.”

Shorter’s teasing remark encouraged a tsk to leave that light pink scowl of the sun. The pittering continued from his unplugged guitar as he skimmed across another difficult riff, one that could be heard throughout the van’s humming interior.

Eiji couldn’t help but listen.

The van itself rumbled beneath the six boy’s feet as they weaved through the well-paved roads of Massachusetts state. The vehicle obviously belonged to burnout boys - fast-food crumbs and cigarette ash littered the carpeted floors, translucent fabrics were draped across the windows in a kaleidoscope of color, and copious amounts of stickers were pinned to the ceiling. Suitcases of shared clothes and beaten instruments were all packed in the back trunk, leaving almost no room for Eiji’s company and camera. But he made it. Right in the backseat.

Besides a pittering Ash.

Last night, the blonde had placed his bulky guitar case between them, silently designating each boy to their own respective sides. It was a juvenile thing to do on Ash’s part, but Eiji had taken no bother - he assumed that the frontman wasn’t too keen on sharing in the first place. The payphone proved that.

Courteous enough.

So since the backseat had been exceptionally quiet, Eiji was invited to play poker upfront, where sunflower seeds replaced gambling chips and the cards were dented from use. The innocently deemed photographer only pretended not to know the rules, earning a handshake of respect from Alex once he bluffed a fatal win. His victory disproved Ash’s earlier declaration, and he couldn’t help but shoot him a gleam in-between his lopsided chew of sunflowers.

Ash made a point of looking out the window.

“What’s wrong with him?” Kong fearfully whispered once another hand was shuffled out.

“He’s in debt,” Eiji muttered to himself, picking up his seven designated cards. Bones cursed at his hand. Kong snickered at his.

“Lynx is in another mood, ain’t he?” Alex prodded, halfway turned between the passenger seat and the shuffling game behind him. He popped a stolen seed into his mouth and chuckled, ignoring the warning look from a driving Shorter. “Play us some Stones, Brian Jones.”

“Shove it, Wyman.” Ash mumbled back, not looking up from his dented fretboard. The tips of his fingers grew pink from its frictious use - he had been mindlessly playing for over an hour. Distracting himself.

“You know you can just ask for a roach, man.” Alex shrugged. Heads swiveled as he continued. “Take the edge off.”

“You have some?” Shorter pressured, eyeing the right-side passenger with a turn of his purple head. A grin encouraged him to continue. “Where the fuck did you get dope from?”

“Cain,” Alex explained, now digging around the unlocked glove compartment. “Before we left.”

“What a lovely sonofabitch,” Bones eased, discarding his cards and clambering across the space between the first two rows. He rested his hands on the back of Alex’s seat and peered over. “You have enough for everyone?”

“Yes, dumbass.”

Bones jubilantly laughed at the sight of the extracted paper bag. “Sweet,” He giggled. “Sweet.”

“What is it?” Eiji smiled, catching the boys’ infectious excitement. Heads swiveled once again.

“Do we have a virgin in our van?” Alex quipped, raising his eyebrows at the expense of a tease. When Eiji refused to bite into the jest, simply because he didn’t know what he was being called, suspicions were confirmed. Laughs rang out.

“You’ve never smoked, Eiji?” Shorter elaborated, catching the miscommunication with a smirk. His gaze remained fixed on the winding road ahead of him.

“No.” He said honestly, eyeing the many items taken out of that bag. He correctly assumed that they weren’t talking about tobacco as a peculiar smell hit his nose.

“Mm, can’t have that,” Alex noted, shuffling around in his seat - he never buckled in the first place. “Let’s have a toast, eh? Chauffeur?”

Shorter shook his head at the offer and gripped the steering wheel in emphasis. “I’m gonna get contact high from you fuckers anyway.”

Little rolls of papered dope were then passed and palmed like sweet candy. They might as well have been, for everyone’s face became bright with childlike excitement. They’ve done this countless times.

Eiji, however, remained indifferent as he held the cast between the wrong fingers. Anticipation budded in the grooves of his sober stomach as Bones readjusted his grip, advising the newcomer with a gap-toothed smile.

“Ly-ynx,” Alex sang, stretching the single vowel out like a taunt. He extended an untouched spliff. “C’mon, for old time’s sake.”

Ash had stopped playing by this point and was eyeing the passable gift. He turned away in answer, “No.”

“For the sake of poppin’ Eiji’s cherry, then.”

The dark haired boy lifted his head at the mention of his name, unsure as to why everyone was chuckling. He flickered his confused gaze onto Ash, who was already holding his stare.

Green eyes shot back down to his guitar.

“No.”

Kong’s sympathetic hand landed on Eiji’s shoulder, playfully rocking him to the booing sounds shot in the guitarist’s direction. Shorter was the only one silent, all too used to Ash’s demeanors and vague reasonings.

He changed the subject for his silent friend’s benefit. “Can you guys just light up already?”

Promptly, an orange ember lit the end of Alex’s joint in compliance. He urged everyone forwards, straining against his seat to pocket his zippo.

Four rolls met in the consecutive middle, pressing against a mingled flame that spread from each spliff. They held their toasts in place as the chestnut haired-boy smiled.

“To Eiji,” He dramatically proclaimed. Everyone turned their colorful glances in the photographer’s direction, repeating the sentiment before Alex continued. “May he live his American dream.”

“And survive it.” Bones added.

Eiji laughed and settled back in his withering seat. As he peered across the wisps of smoke now engulfing the van, he realized that this was going to be his home for the summer. He was going to be surrounded by songs and boys and freedom until August. And how cool was that?

Mimicking everyone else’s eager movements, Eiji pressed the sweet paper against his perched lip and held it there. Green eyes pricked his skin at the movement, burning like the embers themselves and leaving third-degree scars in their wake.

Elusive as smoke, brighter than the sun.

His chest sparked like the end of his joint as Eiji met Ash Lynx’s gaze. He held his defiant stare, because whether or not the frontman believed him to belong here, or whether or not he was willing to share payphones, Eiji Okumura wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t going to be scared off.

He was going to stay in the backseat.

And to prove this, he wrapped his lips around the spliff and inhaled all those unsaid grievances. He let the drag ache his lungs before sighing out an exhale.

He never looked away. Neither did Ash.

May he survive this American dream.

****

The evening sun was streaming in from the translucent curtains, ripe and soft in color. Eiji recognized the sweet hue from his mother’s hakuho peaches, the ones she’d pluck from the morning market and dish back out on humid afternoons. He still could taste the sweetness of summer dripping on his tongue. Could taste Japan lingering on the buds of his memory.

He picked his head up from droopy shoulders.

Around him, Bones and Kong laughed amongst themselves, sharing scrawls and doodles on a papered pad. Alex was slumped in sleep upfront, his prominent chin ducked against his heaving chest. Shorter drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other tapping to the quiet rock station - the buzzing background music replaced Ash’s earlier riffs. It was quiet. Undisturbed.

Eiji decided that the band sounded strange when silent.

He blinked to his left.

Stark blonde hair melted into the warm glow of evening as Ash gazed outside the window. He caught the sunset in a halo around his head, adding to the list of descriptive metaphors - sun, star, angel. The rolling fields of rural Massachusetts bled into his sandy skin, mingling the two figures almost inseparably. He was glowing. Otherworldly.

Eiji hummed at the sight. Ash turned at the noise.

“What?” He accused, voice quiet and unexpectedly dull. The inebriated boy shrugged back.

“You look cool,” He eased, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His thoughts were unfiltered and unable to stay tucked inside his brain, but at the moment he didn’t seem to care. Perhaps that’s what it meant to be free.

Ash didn’t say anything, encouraging Eiji to straighten himself with a rustle of his wrinkled clothes. He looked around once more in interest.

“You’re a lousy high.” Ash decided with a mumble.

“You’re a lousy liar.” Eiji rebutted. “You try to act all tough,” He clambered across the seats ahead of him. “But no tough guy smiles the way you do.”

Ash’s expression was unreadable - a final and weak attempt at secrecy. What a thing to say to someone who’s been hiding their whole lives.

“What are you doing?” Was all he managed.

“It smells like a show in here,” Eiji quietly elaborated, searching for something unsaid with his red-rimmed eyes. He landed on the sunroof hatch with a grin. “Smells like Brooklyn.”

“Alex,” Ash called, sitting up as well. His tone grew into a warning as tan hands popped open the lever. “How much did you give him?”

Alex grumbled in response and Eiji laughed. He glanced back down from his kneeling position on the polyester, “I feel normal.”

Another silence strangled Ash’s composure. By now, everyone was shooting their own red-rimmed stare at the standing Japanese boy, watching as he finally slid open the tinted sunroof. A roaring gust of air immediately swept the gang up by their hair, scattering the cards on the dashboard and dispersing the smoke in the process. The van was no longer quiet between the thunderous wind and laughing boys.

“Crazy fuckin’ tourist.”

The crazy fuckin’ tourist stood against the cramped backseat and settled himself with wobbly legs. His hands gripped the sides of the sunroof’s opening and with a strain of impressive strength, he pulled himself up into the Massachusetts sunset.

The initial blast of speeding air nearly knocked the boy backwards, but a pale hand instinctively reached up and held his leg in place. Eiji looked back down at the touch, crinkling his windwhipped face into another genuine grin at the sight. Ash looked back up at him with a newfound expression, one the dazzled photographer had sported last night.

Devotion.

Now comfortable against the sweeping forces, Eiji relaxed his upper-body and let his head fall back in a tussle of dark waves. His sweater flapped like a ship’s sail, revealing the lines of a tan torso in its starboard. He was flying.

“Don’t let go,” Eiji breathed in allusion to Ash’s hold, his voice swept up by the vacuum of space. Fingers dug deeper in compliance, and tan hands fell away from the sunroof to lay limp by his sides.

He laughed.

For here he was, kissing the open road with splayed palms that sliced the wind like blades. He didn’t care that Ibe was dotingly worried somewhere, or that his slacks were still ripped, or that there was a language he had yet to completely understand. He didn’t care about those things at all. He was emancipated.

And while he’d always carry the taste of hakuho's peaches on his lips, there was still forbidden fruit he yearned to taste. Forbidden fruit only a van of serpents could offer him.

Eiji Okumura smiled.

This was the final frontier of manifest destiny.

Chapter Text

June 10th, 1975
Cleveland, Ohio
Days on Tour: 7

****

Eiji Okumura was used to it.

Used to the cursing, the smoking, the lewd inside jokes he was still learning the punchlines to. Used to peculiar sleeping positions and stiff necks, to dingy bathroom “showers” in pit-stop sinks, to scourging around suitcases and swapping wrinkled clothing between friends.

He’d gotten used to the smell of incense, recreation, and bubblegum. Gotten used to waking up in a new city or state every morning.

He had gotten used to so many things about rock and roll.

“What’s your desert island song, Eiji?”

Just not the music itself.

“What?”

Bones shook his head humorously and adjusted his overall strap. “Desert island song,” he elaborated. “If you were stranded on an island, what’s the one song y’take?”

They were somewhere in suburban Ohio - a week into their journey across the brittle states of America - and vanlife was starting to drag on like one of their used up spliffs. When boredom gnawed on nerves for far too long, they began participating in those childish road-trip games - listing alphabetical license plates, punching bruises at the sight of buggy cars, tic-tac-toe on the windows steam.

“It’s another game we play,” Kong added in allusion to the question. “Keeps our tastes in check, eh?”

Eiji hummed in response and slunk against the backseat in thought. While he scourged up the forgettable names of all his old records, which were currently tucked away beneath the floorboards of his childhood home, the rest of the gang gave their own respective answer.

“‘Roadhouse Blues’,” Alex decided, jeering over the steering wheel. He balanced the roadmap on his knee and muttered an afterthought. “By The Doors. Obviously.”

“Hm,” Shorter sounded from his lavish position in the passenger seat - lapping up his deserved break from driving. “‘Queen Bitch.’”

“Man, you and your Bowie hard-on.”

“It’s a killer fuckin’ song.”

“Says the punk with the purple hawk.”

“Well mine’s that San Francisco one,” Bones bounded in disruption, addressing his literal right-hand man. “Remember, Kong? Who’s it by?”

“Scott McKenzie,” He answered doubtfully, unsure if he was remembering the artist correctly. He gave his own answer with a hum of consideration. “‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ by King Harvest.”

That gravelly voice muttered a low reply as well. “‘The Wind’.”

Eiji turned with curious eyes as Ash stirred out of sleep.

Blame it on the haze of recreational drugs or the colors of a whipping sunset, but something had shifted between the two back-seat band members. The singer was still recluse and grumbling, the photographer still sheepish and new, but it seemed that there had been a truce recognized in the midst of the van’s smoke. Things had become docile - easier.

So, “Who’s that by?”

Ash cricked his neck before delving into Eiji’s question. “Cat Stevens,” He mumbled.

“Stevens?” Shorter smirked from over his front-seat shoulder. “That’s a little frilly for you, Lynx.”

Ash threw a jutting finger. Shorter threw a mocking peace.

“Well,” Kong turned, asking the dire question that was on the rim of everyone’s eyes. “What’s the scene like in Japan?”

Compressing his lips together, Eiji tried to remember any American songs he’d heard of in gentle passing - ones the gang would recognize. But all he could think of was his most beloved record that was scratched and withering from play.

Desert island song.

“‘Hikoki Gumo’,” He blushed, drinking up the familiar syllables of his native tongue. Everyone blinked as he continued. “By Yumi Arai…” He faltered. “It’s a very popular song. In Japan.”

That jaded stare grew playful, “Sing it for us, then.”

Eiji turned towards that achingly familiar voice, sheepish at the tease. “Ah-h,” He emphasized sarcastically. “But I can't sing.”

Ash’s lips quirked. “Sure you can.”

“Really, I can’t.” Apricot skin turned pink, humoring the joke. “At least while I’m sober.”

“Ha!” Alex laughed from the front. “With you there.”

“Anyway, Eiji,” Bones turned, resting his dirty hands on the back of the seat’s headrest. “Keep that song on your mind, ‘kay? We’ve been needin’ new tapes.”

“Yeah, I’m getting real fed up with Shorter’s shit taste of music,” Alex added through a frustrated rustle of the map. Shorter glared.

“There’s a record store in downtown Cleveland.” Kong suggested. “Went there once with family.”

Six scuffed faces beamed in realization.

Pitstop.

****

The record store was quaint and bricked between the bustling foot-traffic of downtown Ohio locals. Making sure that the rustic van was parked in a tow-free zone first, the band collected loose pennies and dollars from pockets in preparation. They stretched their wobbly legs and proceeded through the promising store.

Twined disks hung from the ceiling by, dust danced between filtered sunbeams, and customers in various sections loitered around the waist-high shelves. Two doors with large glass panes sat in the very back, comfortably resting between the wilting panels of walls. It smelt like vanilla and old books. It looked carelessly organized.

The band immediately split up in scattered directions, racing towards the handpainted signs of their desired genre. Ash was the last to walk through the dinging door, nodding curtly to the store’s cashier, who was physically overwhelmed by the sudden energy. Customers pretended not to gawk at the reckless youngblood.

With no tapes to buy, the singer dug his hands into his frayed corduroy pockets and sighed, unsure as to what he should do with his slacking posture.

“Um, Ash?”

Ask and thou shall receive. Ash turned towards the smaller boy with spiked acknowledgment. “What?”

“Could you…” Eiji trailed, flickering his eyes across the littered store. An embarrassed smile streaked his dimples. “I can’t read English very well.” Oh.

The blonde exhaled through his nose in exasperation. “What’s the genre?”

Dark eyes blinked unknowingly at the question - clueless.

Another sigh. “Hey,” Ash called, addressing the startled and pimply cashier. “You guys got overseas shit?”

The two were vaguely pointed to the very back corner, where shelves were filled to the surprising brim. Eiji’s eyes lit up as he found his familiar albums tucked beneath the lopsided ‘International’ sign.

“They have so many!” He laughed in obviousness. His tan fingers began walking across the slanted stacks, flipping through each title, wafting dust with every turn. “Wow.”

Ash, bored with nothing better to do, decided to stay in the eager Japanese’s company. “No tapes, though.” He pointed out with a yawn. “No use buyin’ a record if you can’t play it.”

Eiji didn’t seem to address the blatant fact as he waved Ash over. “Help me find my song,” He commanded, not bothering to look up. “Yumi Arai. A-R-A-I.”

Usually, following authoritative orders was rare for Ash - a boy who only ever listened to his own instincts. He didn’t get this far in life by being docile. But for some inexplicable reason, he found himself complying.

Ash turned towards a separate stack of records and began flipping through as well, skimming over the colorful faces of musicians he’s never heard of. The American muttered something about the strange sounding names beneath his breath.

“Your name sounds strange, too,” Eiji added carelessly, overhearing. “Ash.”

“Bless you.”

“Huh?”

The blonde smiled consciously to himself and started on another stack. “Nothin’.”

The two proceeded to work in a timid silence, melting their conversation into nothing more than a flutter of sticking records and shuffling steps. A soft pop station buzzed from the beaten radio upfront, wrapping them into a blanket of serenity. If they pressed, they could hear the distant clatter of their friends throughout the store.

Moving on to the next row of crates, Eiji inched a closer, stealing a glance at Ash while doing so. He’d had a week to indulge in all these thefty stares, but the sun looked so different in the store’s lighting.

The golden strands that usually fell across Ash’s concentrated face were tucked purposefully behind his ears, and the green knit-sweater he rolled at the sleeves brightly heightened his downcast eyes. Even his lashes were sunswept, too.

Pretty.

Chasing away the strange constriction in his chest with curiosity, the photographer focused back on his hands. “Who’s Cat Stevens?” He wondered.

Ash made a sound - neither of amusement nor annoyance. “A doped up troubadour,” he mumbled.

Eiji hummed with his own discreet smile. “Takes one to know one.”

The sun scoffed.

Eventually, a faded twelve-by-twelve square was plucked from the cluttered and copious rows. “This it?” Ash asked simply, eyeing the symbols of a language he didn’t understand.

“Yes!” Eiji gasped. The record was promptly slipped into his soft and eager hands, easing his face into awe. “Wow, I can’t believe they have it.”

Ash wasn’t sure whether or not it was the childish sparkle in those doe eyes or his general curiosity to hear Eiji’s song, but he ended up pointing to the rows of windowed-rooms in the back.

“We can listen to it in there,” he said.

That sparkle shimmered into a star.

The gentle click of the closing door engulfed the pair in silence, stark against the bustle of the outside store. Eiji took the disk out of its weathered sleeve as Ash reclined against the stickered wall in wait.

It was a small booth, nearly the size of a standard closet, with posters and stickers littering the cramped corners. However, about half of the open space was taken up by the record-player itself, causing Eiji to shoot an apologetic expression over his shoulder as he nestled against the wall as well. Their elbows grazed.

He placed the needle down and the song sputtered into life.

The introductory piano notes engulfed the tiny room in melancholy, striking Eiji’s face with nostalgic recollection at the tune. By the time drums and vocals kicked in as well, his dimples were prominent with joy.

Ash, who had chosen a random corner to focus on, couldn’t help but flicker his attention back to the boy next to him. Eiji looked so different compared to how he did in that Brooklyn greenroom - with his cleanly combed head bowed to his shoes. Now, his hair was tousled in wild directions and his eyes never faltered from contact.

But he still smelt like peppermint. He still was so shameless.

Strange.

“What’s she saying?” Ash managed, straightening against the wall once more. Eiji’s head tilted to the slow tempo as he translated.

“Um,” He sounded, thinking. “‘Not seen by anyone, she is alone…’” His voice tight-roped between singing and talking. “‘She fears nothing, and soars up high.’”

By the time the thumping chorus kicked in, Eiji had begun to sheepishly laugh. “It’s kind of a sad song, actually. ‘Vapor trails are her life,’” He continued.

Ash was silent.

They listened to the rest of the song with tapping toes and rhythmic fingers, following the slow tempo as it faded to an end. It was a surprisingly good song, Ash thought. He understood.

“That’s it,” Eiji shrugged with a gentle whisper. Neither of them moved.

Until, “Wait here.”

Eiji watched with a curious crease between his brow as Ash made his way back out into the store with purposeful steps. Following vague instructions, the waiting boy lifted himself off the wall and placed the record back in its sheath with a careful hand.

Ash returned a minute later with a record of his own: a white square with black print and picture-book watercolor inscriptions.

Eiji understood as well. “Ah,” He smiled. “The doped up troubadour?”

“One and only,” Ash sighed, placing the disk on its player with equally as careful movements. “Can’t believe you’ve never heard of him,” he muttered.

“Well, us Japanese are masochists,” Eiji kidded, earning another scoffing chuckle from Ash. He watched with interest as that calloused finger lifted the needle into place. “Only sad songs are allowed in our country,” he continued quietly.

The record spun in preparation. “I can see why you’d want to run away, then.”

The conversation halted into a quiet submission as the chimy notes of a guitar crackled out of the speakers. Ash slunk against the wall and caught that timid stare once again - there must be a magnet in those eyes.

They turned away.

A wispy tenor carried the poetic lyrics into earshot, encouraging Eiji to helplessly smile. He could see why Shorter had teased Ash about frills and feathers - this was the type of music his sister would swoon to. The type that barefoot hitchhikers played on street-corners with mellowed highs.

That sweet voice and cheerful guitar carried on beneath their breaths as the two went back and forth in stealing glances. They could feel each other’s eyes warm their skin like sunburns.

When the song eventually fizzled out - it was shorter than the last - Eiji was the first to speak.

“I think I like Cat Stevens,” he decided with another easy breath. Self-awareness crept into the sun’s strained smile.

“Everybody does.”

The pair didn’t end up buying anything.

They filed out of the listening booth with music notes still ringing in their ears and rosy hues tinting their ears. They seemed to drown each other in natural perfumes of peppermint and pine - pleasant asphyxiation. They pretended not to notice the ache in their lungs as they walked to the front of the store.

Shorter was the first to find them again, flashing freshly-rolled cassettes and pamphlets in his wave.

“What’s that?” Eiji asked, alluding to the faded paper in the other boy’s palm. Shorter revealed it’s inscriptions with a dramatic flutter.

“Snagged it from the bulletin out front,” he beamed. “Take a look.”

Ash appeared over Eiji’s shoulder with a strike of pine. “Shit,” he exhaled.

“I know,” Shorter laughed. “Twenty bucks a band, split six ways.”

“That barely covers gas money.”

“C’mon, Lynx. Free love.”

“It’s tomorrow?”

“Uh-huh. The eleventh.”

Eiji looked between them and the paper expectantly, catching only snippets of context. He piped up once more, nearly bumping into Ash’s chest as he turned. “What’s tomorrow?” he questioned. Ash melted into that adolescent smirk of excitement.

“A show, Eiji.”

****

After snagging a quick meal at a fast-food joint, the van pulled into another abandoned lot for the night. They were to sleep here, head out first thing tomorrow morning, and follow the venue’s address written on the bottom of the flyer. Eiji’s nerves buzzed in anticipation.

Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t sleep.

With his back to the window and his knees tucked against his chest, he lay upright and impatient. His socked feet brushed the exterior of Ash’s guitar-case - the barrier remained up despite changes - but even the weak attempt at privacy couldn’t snuff out the sound of Ash’s zippo.

Eiji knew the singer didn’t sleep well. Knew that when he had enough of tossing and turning and sighing, he’d crack his window open and smoke a Salem cigarette into the night. That explained the gravel in his voice. That explained the smell.

And as another orange dot flickered into life, tonight was proven to be no different.

“Should singer’s smoke?”

Well, maybe it would be.

The atmosphere of their communal backseat shifted into acknowledgement, and those embers cracked in a quiet response.

“No.”

Eiji smiled. He couldn’t see much between the lapis night, just a shadow across the polyester and that tiny dot of second-hand vices, but the more his eyes adjusted, the more he let himself see.

Ash’s skin caught the beams of moonlight seeping in from foggy windows, subsequently painting his figure in yet another spotlight. His hair had become a light periwinkle blue, stark against its usual blonde hue.

It seemed that even in darkness, Ash Lynx was ablaze.

Eiji itched for his camera.

“How long have you been playing guitar?” He asked instead, gentle and curious. He could feel those cat-like eyes kiss his skin in observation.

Ash took another drag. “Since I was a kid,” he muttered through the smoke. He didn’t know why, but: “My brother gave it to me.”

A thoughtful hum. “Older?”

A rugged swallow. “Yeah.”

Eiji settled further into the seat. “I’ve always wanted a big brother,” he said, smiling at the irony of getting the exact opposite. “So is he still in New York?”

There was a weighted silence.

“He was drafted.”

Oh. Right.

A pang of guilt prodded Eiji’s stomach as he shifted against his seat. He’d seen the headlines back home and watched the orange clouds on television, but he had quickly forgotten that this country was in the shattered effects of a war. Forgotten that there had been reasoning behind the vulgar stares he received in the street, for he looked the same in prejudiced eyes.

This boyish freedom came at a cost, he realized. A bloody, youthful, gun-blaring cost.

“I’m glad it’s over.”

There wasn’t anything more to say.

“Me too.”

In this subtle truth, Eiji realized that if the war ended months ago and Ash’s brother still wasn’t home, then there must have been a heartbreaking telegram delivered to that Brooklyn boy. War is what happens when language fails - isn’t that what the poets say?

“Eiji?”

The quiet boy’s chest ripened at the cowering call. How strange his name sounded on that cunning American accent, Eiji thought. How sharp those consonants cut and how breezy those vowels wisped.

He liked it. “Hm?”

“How does your song go again?” It wasn’t a question, but a request: sing for me.

The way in which that cunning voice cracked made Eiji melt in another smile. He wasn’t embarrassed this time. He wasn’t going to run away.

So he enveloped their backseat with his shy song, rumbling in and out of those pitches he couldn’t quite reach. His voice would trip on the occasional giggle and he’d watch Ash smile at the sound.

A personal show between the aftereffects of war.

Overture.

Chapter Text

June 8th, 1975
Somewhere in Ohio
Days on Tour: 10
Shows: 2
****

From his towering position, Ash could never see their faces.

And he liked that.

He liked that things were always far too bright to catch the individualism beneath the stage. He liked that his vision would become skewed by spotlights, painting the audience into nothing more than one infectious mob of smiles and cheers. He liked that when their open palms yearned and swayed for him, it was all for his music - nothing else.

But ever since that Brooklyn show, something had changed.

“Lynx, you there?”

Ash focused back on the mic beneath him, drawing his eyes away from the festering pit below. “Yeah,” he muttered in Shorter’s direction, fiddling with the wirey chords in distraction. “‘m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

Because amidst the anonymity, he could see a face - a doe-eyed, scrappy face, bowed over a hand-held camera in concentration.

The venue was smaller than the one in New York - more of a bar than a full-fledged concert hall, dappled with eager midwestern bodies looking for musical entertainment. But the turnout was proving to be rowdy enough as dozens of drunks danced around Eiji. The photographer had been too busy clicking his camera lens into place to mind the beer sloshing on his shoes.

He wasn’t scared of anything, that boy.

Fearless.

A sudden crackle ran out on either side of the tightly packed stage, signalling to the audience that the mic was now working. Cheers rang out in an enthusiastic response, for things were about to start. And as that familiar coil of anticipation wrapped around his lungs, Ash chewed in a daunting realization.

“Shit,” he cursed. Two expectant heads swiveled in his direction, encouraging him to elaborate. “I can’t sing with gum.”

“Swallow it,” Alex suggested with budding nonchalance. He waved to a group of chirping girls in the crowd as they cooed. “No one cares.”

Ash scoffed at the idea. Shorter tapped his golden symbol and quipped across its rim, “Never took you for a spitter, Lynx.”

A finger. A snare.

Green eyes continued to scan the vicinity in search of quick disposal. He knew he was being picky, but it was nearly impossible for Ash to do his part with a wad of gum perched on his tongue.

So he gnashed his teeth and landed back on that dark-haired figure - the one who was being tossed between two buzzing bodies, looking oh so out of place.

It was the only face he could see.

“Eiji.”

Those doe eyes squinted up against the stage-lights, expression nothing short of pure surprise. “Yeah?” he answered.

Ash walked forwards, maneuvering his guitar-strap so the instrument rested on his hip instead of his chest. A confident determination striked every step - sauntering. Prowling.

“C’mere.”

Eiji obediently stepped forwards, pinching out of the tightly packed audience while doing so. He stopped against the waist-high stage and peered at the boy above him, blinking back at the sun’s dazed attention.

He wasn’t sure how to feel.

So, “What is it?”

Ash leaned down to explain further, paying no mind to his confused bandmates or the drunken crowd. His hair was practically haloed with gold. “I’m glad you came tonight, Eiji,” he smiled, pale hand lifting.

“Uh,” Eiji managed, tone tipping like a question. The fine hairs behind his ear were fondled by calloused fingers - perfectly balanced between velvet and strength. The skin of fruit, it seemed. “Yeah.”

Ash moved closer, his pulp grip tightening in emphasis - holding the other boy still. “You a fan of Wrigley’s?”

“What?”

Lips crashed.

The sound of Eiji's whimpered surprise rumbled between throats, encouraging Ash to smugly deepen the kiss. Tan hands crumpled into rigid fists as a warm tongue slid against the padding of Eiji's own, slipping the previous topic of conversation between ownership.

Dark eyes ripened into saucers of honey, yet his jaw slacked into submissiveness.

He tasted bubblegum.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

Ash smiled in an immature form of satisfaction at the sound of Alex’s distant groaning - breaking the kiss while doing so. The singer let his fingers trail away in mock intimacy, leaving the shocked photographer to stumble in weight.

Ash proceeded to saunter across the wooden platform as if nothing had happened - as if his gum wasn’t currently sitting on another boy’s tongue, and as if there wasn’t an inebriated audience who had just witnessed the entire thing. Careless. Confident.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Shorter, an involuntary member of these witnesses, shook his head in disbelief. “Real classy, Lynx.”

The blonde shrugged, nonchalantly sliding his guitar back around. “Needed to throw it away,” he justified.

Alex chuckled as he turned his attention to the red-lipped boy beneath the stage. He tsked with fake pity, “That might’ve been his first kiss.”

Gaping, Eiji allowed himself a single blink of composure, unable to disprove that statement. The ghost of Ash’s kiss burned his lips - as if he had gotten too close to the sun.

Maybe that's why he was so warm.

As Ash pittered on his tuning guitar, he inspected the aftermath of his impulse through hooded eyes - curious in their own selfish right. He watched as Eiji settled back into awareness: untensing his shoulders, closing his mouth, blinking fruitfully.

So he was Eiji’s first kiss.

But as those dark eyes flashed back up to the stage with characteristic defiance, it seemed that the timid boy didn’t particularly mind.

In fact, he started chewing.

Ash straightened.

“Alright, Casanova,” Shorter called with another disbelieving shake. “Let’s just dig, yeah?”

Despite his nod of acknowledgment, those green eyes continued to latch onto the only thing they could see - tunnel vision. The realization as to why struck him with a pange: perhaps Eiji was more groupie than he ever was photographer.

His throat became dry at the thought. “Yeah,” he swallowed. “Let’s start.”

Eiji popped a bubble and turned.

****

By the tremor in his fingers and by the thumping in his chest, it seemed he would never get used to this.

To the body’s dancing by his side - spilling their drinks down raised wrists and twisting hips. To the sounds of golden strings plucked in sweet little melodies with a rhythm section in suit. And, especially, to the soulful swooning coming from the mic.

Due to all of these palpitations, Eiji nearly tumbled down as soon as the band started the show. But instead he stood, planted and poised, in the very front row of the audience.

Right where the singer could see him.

And, of course he had taken photos, too. Ones of that pale face cleverly hidden behind a curtain of blonde bangs, of the drummer mid-beat, and of the bassist wavering around stage. He encapsulated all of these bright details so vividly that by the time a final chord rang out, Eiji Okumura was drunk on rock and roll.

Perhaps that’s why he hesitated.

“You a lightweight or somethin’?” Bones asked, watching as Eiji swirled his copper bottle around it’s neck. “You barely touched it, man. Band drinks free y’know.”

“I know,” he smiled. The show had long since ended, and the sweat-glistening band had descended offstage a while ago. Thus the three instrumental-less members waited by the pool tables, indulging in the fiery atmosphere with free vices. Everyone in the crowd seemed to be inebriated with song, too.

But the bubblegum had long since lost its flavor, and Eiji could no longer taste Ash on his lips. So he threw it out with no justification - what was the point?

He pressed the bitter bottle to his lips and eased it back.

“Okumura!” A hand clapped the smaller boy’s shoulder, nearly causing him to choke. Black bangs whipped around to find Shorter grinning behind beads of perspiration. “Gettin’ loose tonight?”

Eiji swallowed the beer, biting back a gag. “Ah,” he sounded. “Yeah.”

“Dig it man, dig it,” Shorter spoke as theatrical as ever and leaned into personal space. He smelt of fresh dope and faint sweat, Eiji noted, rightfully assuming that the on-stage trio must have lit-up in the greenroom.

“Oh, by the way, don’t let Lynx get to ‘ya,” Shorter continued, shaking his ruffled purple head. “That punk’s just tryna cop a row.”

“Cop a what?”

A third voice piped up, “Row.”

As if he had been summoned, Ash emerged from the stage-side doors, stepping lightly behind a swaying Alex while doing so. He sauntered over to the bar upahead, shooting Shorter a vile look in passing.

That green stare was rimmed with red: Christmas in his eyes.

“You playin’ a round with a us, Shorter?” Kong yelled over the chatter, leaning up on the wooden cue while doing so. Those characteristic shades beamed down at the pool table besides them, nodding simply. Bones ran off to get more beer.

Another pat. “Seriosuly, Eiji,” Shorter reassured. “Sorry ‘bout that jackass.”

Those dark eyes crinkled with honesty. “Thanks, but..” Eiji smiled. “He doesn’t scare me.”

Shorter grinned.

“I know, kid.”

Placing his camera on the side of the pool table, Eiji excused himself from the game with a curt nod. He had been spectating for a few clacking shots before giving into that gnawing need to find Ash.

To find that jackass.

As he swerved and side-stepped through the mingling bodies, Eiji realized the obvious fact that his ears still rang with song. Not only that, but no matter how many sips of beer he forced himself to drink, his tongue remained streaked with bubblegum.

It was as if Ash was marking him. Consuming him.

Jackass.

Due to those bright blonde hues that contrasted the dim lighting of the bar, it was easy to find the singer amidst the mob. He was perched against a barstool, auburn drink in hand, ignoring smiles from the red-lipped girl’s besides him. There was a crease in his brow and a toxicity in his posture - as if he was solely determined to do nothing but drink.

Eiji found it charming.

“Is there a word for that?”

Sensing Eiji’s arrival before his approach, Ash didn’t bother to look up from his glass. His voice was deeply strained, “Word for what?”

“Mixing beer,” Eiji elaborated, his own voice raised in order to be heard. He sat down in the empty stool with a smile, basking in the sweet smell of the boy besides him. “And dope.”

Ash huffed through his nose in humor. “Crossfading,” he answered. Eiji’s curious eyes flickered down to the peculiar glass below.

“Is it safe?”

“Sure,” Ash took a ginger sip. “But it’s probably not smart.”

Eiji made a sound of contentment, finding irony in the fact that Ash was probably the smartest person he’s ever met. He bit back the thought and shifted - that beer had taken its dizzy toll.

“You sounded good tonight,” he said, because it was hard to be vague when all he could feel was the ghost of Ash’s tongue writhing against his own. “But you already knew that.”

The compliment encouraged those green eyes to finally lift, brimmed with emerald transparency. Ash stared at Eiji like he was trying to figure something out - like there was an inside joke he was demanding the punchline to.

It didn’t falter Eiji’s honesty. “I liked the last song,” he continued in praise. “Do you write them?”

Ash didn’t falter, either. “Mostly.”

“They’re good.”

“You said that already.”

Eiji smiled. “Well they are.”

They were both well aware that there were two vices inebriating Ash’s veins, but it seemed that the frontman could handle his high - balancing sobriety. Knowing this, almond-shaped eyes felt compelled to do nothing but shamelessly stare.

Eiji’s admiration must have shown. “What is it?” Ash asked. Question after question - that must be a love language somewhere.

“Nothing,” Eiji eased, leaning forwards slightly in rebuttal. “I just noticed how even your eyelashes are blonde, too.”

Ash couldn’t help but blink into that boyish expression, his smile similar to a poker-player who had been blessed with a good hand. “Blonde down there, too.” Seven-carded win. “Wanna see?”

“Sure.”

Ace.

Out of all the colorful words used to describe Ash Lynx, surprised was never one of them. He rarely, if ever, crackled into shock.

Yet here he was, staring at this tourist, eyes wide and throat dry.

“I was kidding,” he managed, clinging to both his glass and weak composure.

Those tan dimples creased, as if it were any other tease - any other conversation. “So was I.”

Around them, hoards of people continued to fester between laughs and mingled chatter - a buzzing little beat to play beneath the pair’s interaction. Addressing this hectic atmosphere instead of the one besides him, Ash turned away.

Eiji did as well.

“You’re popular,” he noted after a stolen moment of observation. Those girl’s with flowing hair and quirking brows still blatantly stared at the frontman from across the bar, and he blatantly ignored them right back.

“I’m a singer.” Ash’s voice was low. “Of course I’m popular.”

Eiji chuckled, catching sight of the band’s bassist making lip-locked acquaintances. “Alex seems to be popular, too.” He rested his elbows on the sticky wooden table, rings of spilt drinks stained beneath him. “But you don’t like attention like he does.”

Assumptions.

“Do you?”

Questions.

Ash stayed silent. For some, reason it didn’t feel like they were just talking about popularity anymore, and that was only proven as Eiji shamelessly, quietly, continued.

“What do you like?”

That glass bent back as Ash downed another inebriating gulp, bobbing his Adam’s apple in the process. “I like music,” he swallowed. Vague.

Eiji smiled. “And bubblegum.”

Shameless.

A rosy flush crept up behind Ash’s ears as the elephant in the room was finally addressed. He didn’t regret it, the pleasant memories of Eiji’s soft hair beneath his fingers proved that, but the last thing he ever wanted was to talk about it.

And yet the tourist continued, pretending not to notice the change of color. “That was mean of you, Ash Lynx.” He was still smiling. “You can be mean.”

Ash smirked against his budding guilt. “Spilt milk, baby.”

Eiji joyously laughed, a staccatoed rhythm Ash spent his entire life trying to find. A tan hand, soft and unable to play chords, proceeded to reach forwards and grasp the half-empty glass. “You can make it up to me,” he said while doing so.

Ash’s nerves pricked with immediate assumptions. “How so?” he mumbled lowly, watching as Eiji brought the drink up to his lips.

But there was nothing to worry about - nothing at all. “Let me take your photo,” he pensively sipped. His nose wrinkled with a swallow.

Ash was still confused. “Isn’t that what we hired you for?”

“Yes, but,” Eiji slipped the glass back down - dissatisfied. “Let me take one right now. With your face in it.”

Perhaps it was the half-rolled spliff he shared with Shorter beforehand, or the rum and coke he nursed, but: “Okay.”

Crossfading.

“Okay.” Eiji repeated with a beam. His stool squeaked back as he stood. “Stay here.”

Ash couldn’t breathe. “Just one.”

Earlier, when he stood onstage and caught those dark eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, Ash made a promise to himself: ignore whatever this was. Ignore the fact that Eiji's flawed backseat singing had stripped his demeanor. Ignore how sweet those lips tasted mouthing at his gum. Ignore how free that Japanese boy looked with his hair ruffled by the wind.

He was so fearless, that boy.

Ash felt sick.

So blame it on the burn of his alcohol induced fear, but when a stocky man twice his size knocked the back of his stool in passing, he snapped in all the ways a cocky American could.

Affection and violence - both irrationally blinding, both firey with passion. One would suit the other, right?

Ash placed his glass down with a rattling clink.

“Watch it.”

“Who’s winning?” Eiji asked, looping his camera strap around his bended neck. Bones ran his fingers through his hair with a frustrated groan.

“Shorter.”

The drummer sniffed with a smile. “I’m not even sober.”

Kong piped up with a grumble of his own. “Wanna turn, Okumura?” he asked. “We could use ‘nother player.”

Eiji shook his head and lifted his camera in emphasis. “Count me in for the next round,” he called over his shoulder.

“Will do.”

And right before he turned on his heel to go back to the bar, Eiji froze against the distant sounds of familiar cursing. Clattering glasses and stools followed suit, encouraging all nearby heads to swivel towards the shattering ruckus.

His stomach dropped to his shoes.

“Ash!”

Back beneath the crowd, the shaken blonde stumbled as a heavy body pursued him. Eiji practically choked on his fear as another punch pummeled Ash’s stomach - doubling over.

Brown loafers stuttered forwards on instinct, but an interfering hand gripped the collar of his tattered sweater instead.

“Leave him.”

Eiji whipped his head around to find Shorter standing surprisingly still. His expression was painted with a hard line of seriousness that only churned Eiji’s gut further.

“But he’s-!”

“Look.”

Reactively, dark eyes swiveled back around and peered between the hoard of observant bodies. In the blink of an eye, Ash had managed to bring his attacker to the ground, chest heaving with a pant.

Those green eyes were jaded with cool fire - passion. Enjoyment.

Ash Lynx was smiling with blood in his teeth, and Eiji Okumura couldn’t breathe.

****

“And a pack of Salem’s, please.”

The gas-station attendee shot a sceptic look from behind the counter at the request, encouraging a fidgeting Eiji to straighten his back and bunch up his fists. He tried to remember all the quick-witted advice the gang had given before instructing him inside the dingy corner store. Look casual, someone had said. Look old.

How the fuck was he supposed to look old?

“Please,” he reiterated, deepening his tone with a cough.

The cashier sighed with a turn towards the locked glass case behind him, obviously not as convinced as he should be. “Salem’s?” he confirmed - minimum wage didn’t pay enough for him to care.

“Yes,” Eiji breathed. “Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.”

Still smelling like a crowded and dingy bar, the obvious tourist glanced to his left where a familiar van parked itself behind the store window. Another parking lot. Another smalltown to pass through.

Eiji just wished they were visiting under different circumstances.

The register dinged. “Twelve-fifty.”

Cigarettes and cheap medical supplies soon replaced the crumpled dollars in Eiji’s corduroy pockets. He stopped himself from bowing a thanks - old habits die impossibly hard - and breezed out of the cramped store with a determined stride.

“Well?” Alex pressed, peering out the van’s rolled down window with scraped interest. Lipstick stained his neck, proving that some people’s nights had been better than others. “Got the shit, Nurse Walsh?”

Eiji didn’t say anything as he pulled back the van door, dirt from the gravelly parking lot wafting behind his steps. Kong, the only licensed driver who wasn’t drunk, waited until the door slammed shut before easing the vehicle back onto the road.

“Mother hen,” Shorter mumbled with a smile. Eiji ignored that one, too.

He couldn’t bring himself to joke around.

Because Ash had gotten into a violent, unjust bar-fight with someone twice his size, and everyone was acting like it was normal. Like the blood staining his shirt - ink spilt on parchment - was expected. He’ll be fine, they said. Lynx was used to it.

But Eiji wasn’t.

So after helping Kong carry the singer’s limping body out of the rowdy bar, he insisted that they stop at the nearest gas station for proper gauze. Everyone complied - Ash not so much - with the acception that he’d buy the gang a carton of cigarettes while doing so.

He passed the Salem’s to the front before turning to his left.

There, with his pale head bent back and a wadded blouse pressed to his nose, Ash lay ruffled and bruised against the polyester. Thankfully, his separating guitar-case had been moved to the trunk with the rest of the instruments, giving Eiji enough room to scooch forwards.

It was nearly midnight by now.

He used nothing but the moonlight to see.

“Could you hand me the flask?” Eiji mumbled in Bones’s upfront direction, watching as Ash sat forwards with grudging compliance. The sloshing canteen was then slipped into his tan hand, and he addressed the crumpled blonde with an even softer voice.

“Let me see.”

The blouse fell away, revealing an inky red trail dripping down a bruised nose and onto plumped lips. A shiner started to emulate beneath Ash’s right brow, and another gash formed on his cheekbone in prominence.

When Eiji hesitated, drinking in the sights of this wreck, golden lashes lidded open in expectancy. The two stared at each other for a quiet moment, slipping into their own backseat universe that only seemed to exist at night.

Ash wanted to explain himself. Wanted to ease that creased brow away and erase the image Eiji rightfully pictured him in.

But he settled for a strained smile. “‘Vice, virtue,’” he murmured. “‘It’s best not to be too moral.’”

Eiji blinked. When he realized that Ash was quoting something - performing - he let a gentle smile melt away concerns. “What’s that?”

The blouse was pressed against the flask and Ash watched it soak. “It’s from a movie,” he answered half-heartedly. “Thought it suit the situation.”

Cool and wet from the slipping water, Eiji placed the fabric onto Ash’s crimson nose. He moved gently around the tender skin as the boy winced in pain.

Distract. “What movie?”

A light sigh. “Harold and Maude.”

No one’s ever touched him like this.

“Haven’t heard of it.”

But it came so naturally to them both.

Ash scoffed as tan fingers tilted his jaw back, maneuvering around the dried blood to get a better angle. “Figured.”

The rest of the van was quiet with drunkenness, a sound so rare with this rowdy band. Perhaps that’s why Ash felt compelled to continue. “It was the first movie I saw in theatres,” To open. “My brother took me.”

Eiji hummed and soaked the fabric again. As he did so, a fellow car passed them on the highway, lighting the van in a quick flutter of yellow headlights.

For a millisecond, Ash’s wounds were bright.

Lungs collapsed once more.

Catching the doting worry in those almond eyes, Ash continued in distraction. He hated pity. “Guess who does the soundtrack for the movie?”

Eiji sighed a shaky breath before coming back around. He placed the blouse to Ash’s busted lips this time, watching fondly as they fumbled beneath his touch. “Who?”

Another smile. “Cat Stevens.”

Another show of rock and roll.

“Of course he did.”

Chapter Text

June 16th, 1975
Memphis, Tennessee
Days on Tour: 18
Shows: 4
****

Back in the seemingly forgotten east-coast city, and between the bustling offices of the journalist department, a crumpled flier landed on the lap of Ibe’s bouncing knee.

He gave it a curious glance before flicking his gaze up to Charlie. “What’s this?” he asked, inspecting the wrinkled parchment.

“A clue.” The red-haired man sat in his swiveling desk chair with a sigh. “I’ve got a friend in Ohio,” he explained. “Apparently they happened to catch a particularly Brooklyn-esque band last night.”

Ibe’s eyes grew wide. “Do they know where they’re going next?”

A shrug. “No clue, but that boy still has our camera,” he mumbled. “So we better figure it out.”

The Japanese man nodded with another glance to the flyer. Memphis, he thought. How on earth was Eiji managing with that boyish crowd?

His mind wandered over to that green-eyed frontman, and how carefully he placed that beloved guitar in the photographer's grasp. How naturally they worked together - how easily Eiji melted into Ash’s world.

Ibe sat up.

“Buy two bus tickets,” he said, recalling that interview oh so many weeks ago. “I know where they’re going.”

Charlie’s brow grew skewed with scepticism. “Where?”

The flier crinkled between his tightening grasp as he turned to grab his coat.

“California.”

****

Ash always thought it was fitting that girls were nicknamed birds.

With their thin wrists pressed beneath craning collars - dousing themselves with floral perfume. Their satin blouses and fanning hair mimicking feathers as they danced. The way they’d flock together. They way they cooed.

Doves.

And much like the cardinals and jays that dabbled around Central Park in the spring, girls were nice to look at. Nice to talk to when they were pecking around the bar after shows.

But, as the metaphor goes, the hobby was called bird watching.

So when a manicured hand landed on his shoulder, or flirtatious lashes fluttered for far too many blinks, Ash would tip his glass back and leave the adultery to Alex.

Because Ash hated it. Hated the thought of casual sex in general - the steryotypes and the sounds and the vulnerability. That was never what the music onstage was about, let alone the intimacy.

He despised the subculture of backseat encore fucks.

Groupies.

And yet here he was, watching from one of the venue’s many leather booths, sipping on an eager little drink and hopelessly watching. Prowling.

Because he should have known by now that Eiji could fly, too.

And, oh, how the birds loved him - conversing with the photographer before and after their many shows. “You’re with the band?” they’d gasp, flapping their hands over his pretty smile and modern camera. Sometimes he’d take their picture. Sometimes they’d share their lipstick stained spliffs.

Thus tonight, in this cramped Tennessee bar, the girls had placed their shiny beads around Eiji’s neck and streaked glitter on his warm face, eagerly initiating him into groupie aesthetics.

“He can make friends with anyone, can’t he?” Shorter admired, sipping on his own sour drink and watching the flocking unfold. The rest of the gang were god knows where, leaving only an all-knowing-Shorter in Ash’s slumped company.

Those circle shades slipped down as a particularly handsy brunette gave Eiji another peck on the cheek. “Who knew chicks liked baby-faces,” he whistled. “Guy’s got game.”

Ash scoffed like it meant something. Like maybe there was no game or reason as to why Eiji got so chatty with the girls in the first place. No other, backseat, reason. “He’s making an ass out of himself,” he muttered.

Shorter cocked a brow. “You still got a shiner, boss.”

Ash turned away.

A few moments later, Eiji stumbled back into the booth with a trailing giggle, decorated in various accessories and platonic lipstick stains. He squeezed besides a rigid Ash, shamelessly nudging his elbow with his own as he settled.

“Hey chick,” Shorter jeered in acknowledgment. “Likin’ hippie culture?”

Eiji nodded eagerly. “Memphis locals are so nice!”

Ash’s shoulders grew tense and Shorter’s own shook with a laugh. “Uh-huh,” the tan boy grinned, “You look like one of ‘em.”

Eiji glowed. His dark hair had been pushed back in wild tufts and glitter had been tapped onto his cheeks - smudged little rockstar evidence. The sparkles caught the dim light as he turned towards the hunched singer.

“They were asking about you,” he called, voice strained from the clatter of the venue and perked beneath a smile.

Ash practically threw the glass back.

Shorter endeared it. “Anyone askin’ for the drummer?”

That tan hand of conversation gestured to a blue-eyed bird with peachy skin. The feminine sight encouraged Shorter to finish off his own glass, slither out of the booth, and toss an eager hand over his shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” Eiji waved with an endearing palm. Ash watched with daggered eyes.

They were alone, now.

As always, Ash gently pushed his drink forwards for Eiji’s liking - the two often split a strong drink in order to save money. But as those multilingual lips pressed against the rim and tilted, Eiji realized that this drink wasn’t particularly strong.

Before he could ask for Ash’s sudden change in sobriety, a low voice mumbled between their confined space.

“What were they saying?”

Eiji clinked the drink down and followed that green line of sight. “Ah,” he said, watching the girls he had only just made friend’s with. “They were asking if you won the fight you got in.”

Reasonably so. “And?”

Eiji shrugged, “I said that you’re a rockstar, of course you won.”

“Phony answer.”

“Phony truth.” Glitter sparkled as he smiled. “And you did win, right?”

Ash smirked and said nothing, giving into the jest with a fading expression of admission. So many times he found himself melting sorrows with this boy. How good Eiji Okumura was, he thought.

How good he must sound.

“You got a girlfriend?”

Eiji blinked those big eyes for a moment before cheekily fluttering them closed. “No,” he said, surprised. There was a flush of pink beneath the glitter. “You?”

Ash leaned back in his seat with a sigh. “Everyone wants to be the frontman’s girl.”

Eiji hummed at the unclear answer. Throughout their weeks together, they’ve never really talked like this - like curious friends instead of obligated bandmates. All previous conversations had been short and simple and not nearly as indulging, which was strange considering that both of them happened to be sober.

The lipstick stains melted into his skin as he blushed. “I’ve never had one.”

Ash tilted his head in question and took another sip. Eiji elaborated with a scratch of his neck.

“I’ve had girls like me,” he said, remembering all those lettered confessions slipped onto his desk with heart doodled into the corners. All those polite smiles of rejection he had to give. “But ...”

Ash understood. “Never interested?” he finished. Eiji turned once more with a nod.

There was a neon sign tacked upon the wall behind them, painting that stark blonde hair in a purple-ish hue. It was amazing how Ash always reflected the light like that - like he was sculpted just to melt into his environment.

And yet he always stood out.

It was Ash’s turn to nod, only taking one thing away from Eiji’s statement. “So girls chase boys in Japan?” he kidded.

Another shrug. “Girls seem to chase boys in America, too.”

Consequently, the bird’s flirtatious stares turned into painful beams against Ash’s skin. Eiji seemed to be noticing them as well as he gave another rueful glance.

The singer stood. “I’m sick of venues.” Sick of birds.

Eiji followed with an understanding smile. “It’s a bit early in the tour to be sick of them, Ash.”

The two loitered against the brickwall of the club’s exterior, relieved to be away from the chaos that mingled inside. The occasional drunk stumbled past them and the occasional taxi honked, but other than that, they were alone.

They didn’t need to yell to be heard out here - to be seen.

It was as if they were in the van’s backseat.

“I fucked up the chorus again,” Ash mumbled, cigarette poised in reflection. They were talking about tonight’s show, an easy topic to fall back on when other things were on their mind.

Eiji shrugged in response, taking his own bummed drag while doing so - Ash had offered up his pack. “I didn’t notice.”

A smirk. “You were distracted.”

An exhale. “So were you.”

Ash looked him over with a low, surprised laugh painting his lips. Eiji looked back, chin slightly tilted in defiance. How different they looked from first impressions.

“It’s impressive,” said Ash. Eiji’s brows lifted in question, and the blonde continued. “How quickly you’ve gotten used to everything, I mean.”

Eiji leaned back further into the wall with a laugh of his own. “Not everything.”

“What are you still not used to, then?”

You. “The language.”

“There are some words I still don’t understand,” he continued. When Ash asked what kind, the Japanese boy elucidated to what those girls called him. “What’s a groupie, for instance?”

Ash froze at the question. He had been trying to forget about those blasphemous images Eiji had cursed him with - all those birdlike characteristics. The cool singer was terrified to become one of those rejected school girls who were left with nothing but yearning.

And yet, “Someone who sleeps with a band member.”

Eiji blinked, and by the apologetic expression streaking his face it seemed that he didn’t know what the phrase meant. Ash took another drag to cover up his torment and grew sharp.

“A fan who fucks, Eiji.”

Oh. “Oh.”

They resembled two roses, then - crimson with embarrassment and undeniably lovely. Two boys growing and budding into maturity, hoping to be plucked by life.

What Eiji realized then, with context, is that those girls in the crowd assumed he was one of them. Is that why they asked about Ash? Is that why they giggled when he kept turning towards him?

The more he thought about it, the more useless the nicotine became. His nerves skyrocketed into a shake, because of course his mind had pervertedly wandered before. Of course he had grown curious as to why Alex looked so carefree after every date and why his girls seemed to glow. What events transpired in bathroom stalls to leave hair ruffled or clothes disheveled so?

He just couldn’t imagine Ash partaking in those events.

But there he was, glancing to his left, searching for an answer in those charming green eyes. The realization that they were alone, they were young, and that they were curious came with every slow blink. This was why Ibe had been so angry with him leaving, Eiji realized. Because they were alone, young, and curious.

Eiji turned away with an adjustment against the brick, chuckling away the anxious flutter in his stomach. He watched as his cigarette crumpled its ash onto his shoe, a little trail of stardust. “Is there anything you don’t know?” he whispered.

There was a thumping against the wall - another band had been scheduled to play - and it mimicked their crescendoed hearts beating against their chests. Ash considered Eiji’s question as the music played, matching his lighthearted words with honesty.

“I know nothing.”

Eiji smiled, as if he found the answer dense. He flicked the ash off his shoe.

Ash watched. “What’s so funny?”

Those dark eyes remained transfixed on the pavement, attempting to figure out a proper explanation. “You just…” His brown shoe scuffed the gravel once more. “You just know more than anyone else I’ve ever met, Ash. That’s all.”

Ash looked away now as well, cigarette poised between his teeth. “How little I know about the things that matter,” he muttered.

Eiji’s heartbeat roared in his ears. “What things?”

Or maybe it was just the music. “You know what things.”

They were obviously dancing around the topic - tiptoeing between metaphors, fighting to lead the waltz. Perhaps that’s why they had become breathless. Perhaps that’s why they wished to sway.

But just like every other stuttered moment of intimacy, Ash discarded his feelings before they could fester. He flicked his cigarette onto the ground and pushed himself off the wall in the same motion, leaving Eiji alone on this metaphorical dance floor.

“You could be one of them,” he said. “If you wanted to.”

Eiji turned to watch him go. “Boys can be groupies?” he called.

“Yes.”

Eiji ran the conversation over his head with a swallow. The singer was heading back to the van, it seemed, recluse and contemplative in his steps. Did he want Eiji to follow him? Is that why he left his cigarette smoking in the stormdrain?

Inside, the other band had finished their song, and a round of applause pittered against the walls. Eiji remembered being a part of the crowd just hours earlier, cheering on his friend’s from his craning view beneath the stage. The ovation for them had been thunderous.

The little Brooklyn band had been gaining traction with every city they slept in and with every fan they slept with. Whether or not it was because of Ibe’s article or the music itself, it didn’t matter, for more and more people were praising them.

More and more people were yearning for Ash Lynx, and yet no one would be his bird.

Eiji twisted his shoe against the cigarette and followed.

Well, maybe one.

****

Nothing happened.

Bones and Kong had been in the van the entire time, getting high and playing checkers with the board-game they had smuggled between seats. When Eiji approached the maroon vehicle in stride, he found Ash leaning up against it, ignoring the hype-men’s laughing with a knowing expression.

The idea was put to rest, whatever it had been, and the pair spectated checkers instead.

They didn’t speak of it again.

Except when a disheveled Shorter returned to the van, followed by an obviously relaxed Alex a few minutes later, the backseat bubbled with playful laughter.

“What’s so funny, you two?” Alex squinted through the rearview mirror. The observation sent them off into another fit, and they doubled-over in composure as irony struck their lungs.

Maybe it was his naivety, or lingering boyhood, but Ash would much rather laugh in the backseat than make a bird chirp.

For now, anyway.

Tennessee was warmer than any other previous states, Memphis especially so. Low on gas and low on parking options, Shorter pulled the van to a stop on the side of a country road with a shrug.

They would be able to afford a hotel room in Los Angeles, he said, if they kept playing gigs the way they did. The band grew eager at the thought - a made-up bed and locked doors was heaven on earth.

But for now, an open field lay besides them, stretching on for all it's abundantly grassy miles. Blue mountains disrupted the flat horizon, and with a squint, city lights could be seen twinkling beneath the ridge.

They slept with the van doors and windows open, letting the sounds of the country slip by with every orchestral cricket and every rustle of rye. Eiji fell asleep to these rural sounds, content in his shuffled position against the polyester.

The chords of a guitar woke him.

Blinking against the violet haze of morning, his gentle voice rasped between the chorus of birds and strings. “Is that a new song?”

Ash looked over at the question. The backseat pair were both rustled and heavy-lidded from sleep, forcibly pressed against the quiet sounds of morning - which included Kong’s upfront snores.

How easily they slipped into privacy. Into conversation.

“Maybe,” Ash answered, voice painfully scratchy against his throat from the show. Blonde strands fell across his brow as he focused back on his guitar.

Eiji hummed. He watched as those pale fingers of conversation pressed down against the fretboard, maneuvering between notes, seemingly pastel from the sunrise. It was a sweet little tune that proved itself for praise.

“I’ve never seen someone play the guitar like you do, Ash,” Eiji whispered. “It’s like it's a part of your body.”

It was Ash’s turn to hum. “D’you want to try?”

Eiji sleepily smiled.

Things were always easier at dawn.

Settling himself reasonably close to the frontman, Eiji watched with wide eyes as the guitar fell onto his lap. He awed the piece of sleek wood, warm from Ash’s chest, as if it were rosary - a holy item used in worship.

He held it once before in the haze of the greenroom, hair brushed and sweater tucked. How different this interaction was, with smudged glitter decorating his face and borrowed clothes loose on his frame. Eiji hadn’t realized it yet, but the black button-up he sported was Ash’s.

It sent a possessive shiver down the singer’s spine.

“Put your fingers there,” he murmured, guiding Eiji’s slim hand beneath the second fret. “Relax your wrist.”

Eiji’s eyes flickered up and down with wide uncertainty. He followed every vague instruction eagerly, allowing for his hands and fingers to rest in the desired positions. A primrose hue dappled Ash’s ears as he did so, for it seemed that Eiji’s words rang true: his guitar was a part of him.

And no one’s ever touched Ash like this.

“Strum.”

Eiji’s left hand slowly trickled across the strings, enveloping the backseat in a pleasant little chime. Dark eyes sparkled at the note.

“Wow,” Eiji breathed, grinning. He did it again at a quicker pace and laughed.

Ash smiled back. “You’re a natural,” he said. His bended knee pressed against the other’s as he scooted closer - the contact hot through his slacks. “Try going up and down.”

And in their compressed polyester space, where birds sang their dawn chorus and friend’s snored in sleep, Eiji held Ash’s guitar close to his chest and attempted to play rock and roll.

Japan, groupies, language - all of those trivial things were nonexistent to the pair.

All they felt was each other.

Chapter Text

The van was, as Shorter put lightly, a piece of shit.

To say the least.

The engine constantly coughed in oil-leaking-hemorrhages, a peculiar rattling started up whenever they’d go past sixty on the freeway, and more often than not the sliding doors stuck against the rust of its levers. The air-conditioning had also broken sometime in Indiana, putting the term “hot-box” into literal contexts.

During a particularly warm day, Eiji asked Ash between the spaces of humidity how they came across this well-loved vehicle in the first place.

“Shorter bought it when he was sixteen - after we formed the band,” Ash answered, sweat rolling off his furrowed brow as he glowered towards the driver. “And it was a piece of shit back then, too!”

Middle fingers were lovingly exchanged. The van sputtered.

But by the time the van crossed over Mississippi state lines, Shorter finally indulged in the rattling with a half-assed park job on the side of a grassy road. After a few more curses from the driver and a few more chugs from the engine, the hood was propped open and the band was declared stuck until further notice.

Not wanting to accompany Bones and Kong in their two-mile gas station walk, Eiji, dressed in a tawny leather jacket and flared corduroy pants, clambered out of the backseat and explored the Mississippi landscape instead.

That’s where Ash, with his book folded in his back pocket, found him.

The singer approached the tourist with a gentle saunter, stepping over the waist-high rye while doing so. His hair brilliantly reflected the Memphis sun, mimicking the wheat itself as it blew in golden slants behind his ears. His chest was barely visible beneath the sheen fabric of his white blouse - angel.

Rockstar.

“What are you doing?”

Eiji lifted his attention away from the bundle of grass beneath him, eyes squinting into a recognizable smile.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he kidded, turning back to the wildflowers. The soft sounds of stems snapping took up most of the conversation,“Does Shorter know what’s wrong with the van yet?” Snap.

A shrug. “I think he just wanted an excuse to take his shirt off.”

Eiji chuckled lightly. “Probably,” he turned,. “Do you know what these are called, by the way?”

A rustle of grass swayed as Ash smiled - nothing more than just a soft quirk of pink lips. “Daisy,” he answered, flickering between Eiji and the haloed flower he held. “They’re weeds.”

Satisfied with the new vocabulary word, and ignoring the pessimistic comment, Eiji palmed said weed into his makeshift bouquet. He muttered something in Japanese while doing so, unused consonants and syllables dancing around his tongue.

A ripple of rose tinted Ash’s cheeks - garden. “Hm?”

The tourist smiled in translation. “It’s a proverb.” Snap. “"Tsuki ni muragumo, hana ni arashi.” Snap, snap. “Flowers are often scattered by the wind, therefore nothing is certain. Don’t know why I just thought of it, but..”

Ash nodded, rolling the phrase around his head like one of his papered spliffs. It seemed that the more he thought about it, the more he realized how perfectly that proverb applied to them. Eiji, the delicate flower. Ash, the evanescent wind. Would this boy let himself be scattered by Ash’s uncertainness?

“Ash?”

“Hm?”

Eiji proceeded to stand tall against the dry grass, eyeing the little white petals as he thought. He must have caught onto the unspoken metaphor, for he proceeded to give Ash the most tender look he’s ever been graced with.

“What are you going to do with the flowers?” he asked. What are you going to do with me?

Ash’s skin became warm with sun. “I don’t know,” he whispered truthfully, soft voice mimicking the breeze. “But they’re nice to look at.”

Eiji felt warm, then, too. “Are you just going to look at them?”

There were only a few steps, metaphorical miles, between the two boys, and Ash could close that space so quickly if he just willed himself to do so. And as if they could sense the hesitance, dark eyes held his stare defiantly - tauntingly.

Do it, he begged.

Please.

But in the wind-swept distance, the van’s familiar engine sputtered into a disruptive life - turning flowers into nothing more than weeds. Shorter’s celebratory curses followed suit, echoing across the dry Mississippi field.

The pair shared a knowing glance between the clatter.

“Guess we should go back,” Eiji mumbled, though he made no effort to do so. Daisies wavered in his palm.

Ash watched them sway. “Guess so.”

They realized, then, that things would be so much easier if they could spend the rest of their lives in this boyish field of flowers and sunbeams. If they could do nothing but breathe and gaze and dance between metaphors, unconcerned about the world or war around them.

But all flowers must be picked, as the folk musicians say.

Eiji turned.

It seemed that they had become catcher’s in the rye, desperately clutching and clawing for one another before the cliff gave way - before life continued past them faster than they could react.

Ash followed.

Out of reach.

****

They weren’t alone again until later that night.

The van, thanks to Shorter’s pit-stop tinkering, managed to get the band to their scheduled show in Jackson with plenty of minutes to spare. And Eiji hadn’t been exaggerating earlier - this Brooklyn band was gaining popularity, thus venues were becoming easier and easier to find.

It was the biggest building they’ve ever played in and the biggest crowd they’ve ever played for, so after grabbing his case from the cluttered trunk and breezing by security, Ash lounged upon the lush greenroom couch and warmed up in solitude. He always does that when he’s nervous, as Shorter said.

The rest of the band checked in as well and loitered around the expansive building, asking around for the best local bars and taking a few photos for memorabilia. Due to the chaos of the gang’s curiousness, no one noticed when Eiji slipped away, too.

Because he had gone his entire life without Ash in his sight, and sometime across this state-swept tour, it had become impossible to go any further without.

The door to the greenroom opened slowly, startling the concentrated singer into attention. He watched as those familiar eyes hesitantly peered inside, sheepish in their gaze.

“Sorry,” Eiji smiled. He treaded past the threshold and slunk against it’s frame, subconsciously mimicking the person he was when the two first met - that once timid tourist. “I know you’re tuning.”

“‘S fine,” Ash murmured, regarding the other boy with an observant eye.

The photographer was still wearing that tawny leather jacket, and the fabric now slipped off one tan shoulder ever so slightly to reveal a fitted black tank. And due to the lack of care, Eiji’s hair was fluffy in dark little tufts against his forehead.

Ash straightened, “Close the door.”

With a click of obligation, Eiji trapped them both inside the well-kept greenroom and walked over. “Good turn out tonight,” he said, simply for the sake of it, “Might be the biggest show so far.”

Ash hummed in consideration as the couch dipped in weight. Eiji nestled himself comfortably on the other end of the two-cushioned sofa, flooding the confined space with the smell of faint peppermint and smoke. Green eyes never wavered.

Eiji raised his brow slightly, addressing the blatant staring. “Aren’t you warming up?” he smirked, plump dimples creasing. “Go on.”

Ash shifted and continued tuning. “Where is everyone?” he murmured, a chimy note straining towards the correct pitch. Eiji watched those fingers twist.

“Out.”

A scoff, “What do you mean ‘out’?”

“I mean,” Eiji’s voice lowered. “Out.”

A chord combated the silence as Ash stared once again. The more he reflected into those deep pools of dilated honey, blinking back behind black lashes, the more he picked up on everything unsaid.

“Yeah?” he clarified. Eiji smiled at the tone.

“Yeah.”

And just like before, in that vast Mississippi field, the space between the two boys turned into metaphorical miles. Begging to be crossed, Ash slowly slipped his ombre guitar out from against his chest and out from under his attention, movements like molasses.

Eiji eyed the beloved instrument as it dipped against the wooden floor. The action encouraged an amused hum, for it didn’t take a genius to assume what the disregarded gesture meant.

Warming up.

He moved forwards, and Ash immediately responded.

Tuned in.

That leather jacket slipped further off of his shoulder as Eiji advanced down the couch, the creaking of springs stark against the ruffle of fabric and skin. Ash twisted his body to accommodate, keenly brushing his leg against the other’s as he did so.

Their eyes remained locked as Eiji practically crawled on top of him, both hands gripping the cushion on either side of Ash’s waist. He only broke that unwavering contact to watch those pink lips part beneath his breath.

“Eiji,” Ash muttered, syllables dripping like syrup, “What are you doing to me?”

Eiji tilted closer, developing cavities from the sweetly vague question. His lips faintly fumbled against Ash’s own as he answered.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Both of them knew that once they succumbed to this, whatever it was, they would become nothing but martyrs to each other - lovers who died for promised fulfilment. They knew that once hands started to travel and mouths started to open, they wouldn’t be able to stop until said fulfillment was found.

Until salvation was given on this backstage couch.

And who knows what would have happened if it weren’t for their approaching bandmates? Who knows how far they would’ve gone if it weren’t for Shorter’s voice echoing behind that purposefully closed door?

I thought you said they were out, Ash wanted to tease, but he couldn’t muster up the words to do so as Eiji’s frustrated sigh trickled across his cheek. He felt as if he had been both graced with heaven and denied its entry at the motion.

And as those familiar voices neared, the two mutually pulled away with thunder in their chests and lightning in their eyes. A silent proposition flickered between the electricity: later.

Eiji looked away. Ash swallowed.

Later.

By the time that greenroom door rudely swung open, Ash was back to tuning and Eiji’s eyes were glued to the floor. If there was a tension in the room, which there certainly had been, it went unnoticed as Alex and Shorter went back and forth in conversation. Bones and Kong followed suit with water bottles in their fists.

“So since we’re getting an intermission,” Shorter jeered in the bassist's direction. “Then you have time to fix the fucking beat.”

“I’ll fix your fuckin’ beat.”

“Will you two shut up?”

As the gang loudly bickered and settled around the room in a characteristic fashion, Ash managed to sneak one final glance to his side, watching as Eiji modestly adjusted his jacket back up his shoulder.

Later, they had promised.

But they were hungry for it now.

****

Eiji needed a goddamn cigarette.

Well, what he really needed was to be splayed against that creaking greenroom couch, but he’d settle for a Salem.

He didn’t know when this nicotine induced pining started - whether it had been in that New York venue or in that Mississippi field - but he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Was that just pent-up affection coming to a boil, or an impulse of passion ignited between rock and roll?

The more Eiji shifted against the warm bodies between the pit, recognizing the sorrowful ache in his chest as nothing short of pining, it seemed to be both.

His camera weighed heavy.

God, he needed a smoke.

And, as if the universe had chosen to play one final cruel trick of fate, a chatty group of birds discussed the rumors of the pretty-faced frontman as they waited. “I heard he’s got the greenest eyes,” they cooed and giggled, “I heard he’s just like James Dean.”

Eiji clenched his jaw and adjusted the lens.

A round of earth shattering applause echoed across the dimly lit pit in interruption, perking Eiji’s attention back up to find his friend’s. They nodded and talked amongst themselves, ignoring the crowd in an obvious nonchalance that made the tourist relax.

Fans, popularity, groupies - none of that ever mattered to this Brooklyn band. The girl’s cheering and yearning didn’t amount to anything as long as the music came first.

And besides, Eiji was the only one invited to the backseat afterwards.

Ash had always channeled his emotions through spotlights.

If he had a particularly bad dream the night before, his voice would become hoarse and aggressively strained in song. If he was indifferent towards performing, he’d reach for the flask by his feet and allow for Alex to carry the solos. Or, most recently, if he shared a small smile with Eiji between sets, he’d let his body sway in the closest thing the cool boy called dancing.

But tonight, as desire buzzed beneath his fingertips and affected the chords he played, a new type of emotion crackled out of the side-stage amp.

Frustration, arrogance, passion, a mix of all three - it didn’t matter. Because whatever that redhot emotion was, it made the girl’s cheer louder in response. Alex and Shorter shared eye-rolls at the sight.

Eiji lowered his camera.

That pale neck craned back.

Ash knew that up here, on this well-wired stage, he was in the utmost control. No matter how wide those fingers splayed for his presence, they would never touch him. And he liked that. He lived for that.

Hips rolled against that sunburst guitar.

He also knew that Eiji was good - as good as people could get in this war-riddled country. And the fact that those good eyes admired Ash alone felt like everything he had ever needed. Had Eiji always looked at him like that? Had he always wanted to kiss on greenroom couches, and if so, how many venues had they wasted?

Lips pressed flush against the mic.

And above everything else, Ash knew that Eiji lived for him, too. And it would make him a damn fool to let that good love go to waste.

So Ash continued to let his emotions cloud his movements - continued to let every provocative sway and rasped note reach the eyes and ears of that beloved boy below. He flashed a communicative expression between stars as he capered.

Eiji continued to hold his stare in that characteristic defiance, aware of both the crowd - who was obviously loving this just as much as he was - and of the singer’s commanding performance. Ash had always been a rockstar, he knew, but tonight the frontman was much more than that.

Tonight, he was Eiji’s.

And he was making love to him through song.

****

“What the fuck is up with Lynx tonight?”

That bohemian blonde practically prowled around backstage, sweat dappling off his hair and catching the lights like trailing stars. The drummer and bassist laughed in suit, sharing knowing glances between the noise.

“How long is intermission?” Ash asked in a sudden rush. He started to loop his guitar off his warm body as Alex hummed.

“Ten minutes,” he shrugged, “I think?”

A guitar was thrusted in Shorter’s empty grasp - he had left his sticks onstage - encouraging the drummer to perk a brow. Ash breezed down the hallway before he could let a joke in.

“Where are you goin’?” Alex called.

Pale hands slammed against the emergency exit handle and proceeded forwards, “I need a goddamn cigarette.”

The bassist whistled mockingly as the door clicked back shut. “Jesus,” he shook his head. “Pretty boy hasn’t changed since we were kids, has he?”

Shorter made a sound of weak acknowledgement and turned towards the greenroom. But he has changed, he realized with a smirk. Because if anyone could string all those context clues together in a single definitive answer, it was Shorter, who knew Ash better than the boy knew himself.

And, well, it also helped that Ash’s lighter was still in Shorter’s pocket.

The backstage parking lot was an empty shell of space, lit by nothing but a flickering lamp-post that beckoned mosquitoes and amber hues. The Mississippi air was sweet and humming with the song of southern cicadas - performing in their own rural venue, it seemed.

Ash threw open the steel door and submerged into the sable night, scanning across the backlot where the band had parked just hours earlier. His shoes scuffed against the slate gravel as he caught sight of that piece-of-shit van, tucked directly below that orange lamp-post horizon.

A body turned as the door clicked shut.

Eiji had been waiting for him.

That flustered photographer had slipped out of the crowd with just as much vigor as Ash had, hoping to rendezvous in the night’s promised privacy. It seemed that both of them knew that a van door could lock and a greenroom couldn’t.

Green eyes met dark brown - summer’s grass and the dirt beneath it - from across that humid lot. Again, it seemed that miles of space had accumulated between the two boys, only now it was gravely asphalt as opposed to rye fields and backstage couches.

The two mimicked one of those James Dean westerns, standing ten paces away, hands hovering over the gun by their hips and daring the other to react first. The more Ash observed with his chin held high, the more he realized just how desperate Eiji was for all of this.

That timid tourist wanted his trigger pulled, and so Ash stepped forwards.

By now, due to many clicking photos and hazy shows, Eiji was well rehearsed with how Ash moved. Even tonight’s performance should have given the photographer the inclination that Ash’s body was like water - malleable and swift, slipping through nimble fingers.

That cool water flooded his demeanor and swallowed his stuttered gasps.

In no time at all, Ash managed to cross that barren space between them and hold Eiji close, swaying their bodies beneath that auburn spotlight. Tan hands weaved through fields of sweat-dappled blonde, and Ash’s own delicately cupped the underside of Eiji’s jaw.

The two stumbled towards the van with unwavering contact, lips never leaving the other’s unless it was for a sharp inhale or repositioning tilt. The third law of motion - every action accompanied by an equal opposite reaction - encouraged Eiji to clunk against the maroon door as Ash pursued him. The van rocked with the eager movement.

They had been so timid before. So careful.

Ash’s knee slid between Eiji’s legs.

But this was rock and roll.

“You looked so cool tonight,” Eiji huffed, chasing his running breath with unfiltered mutters. He recalled and relieved all that pent-up praise. “But you know that, don’t you?”

Blonde lashes lidded open in response, panting just as much. He had kissed and touched and strived for attention before, but it had it never left him this breathless.

Eiji smiled, lips ripe and wet.

It had never been this sweet.

And as Ash looked down at the bruised boy he pinned, he finally understood what all those Carpenters songs were about. He finally understood why those sappy lyrics harmonized for that fabled four-lettered word.

Because sometime in the backseat, Ash and Eiji intertwined their souls in melody.

They became each other's desert-island song.

Eiji’s hands curled into fists against tousles of blonde, reacting to the foreign feeling of soft lips pressed beneath his jaw. Ash whispered against that strained neck, fanning his breath across the sensitive skin.

“It’s all for you, Eiji.”

Leveraging off the van, Eiji let a gentle noise caper off his throat as Ash’s knee rutted. Unsure as to what instinct encouraged him to do so, one tan hand trailed away to helplessly feel for the door-handle by his hip. He needed to be lying down.

So, “I know.”

Ash ghosted the shell of Eiji’s ear with his scouting lips, dampening the skin with breathless flattery, “It’s always been for you.”

The door slid out from under them.

“I know.”

The two tipped into the dim backseat with another unbreaking kiss, the sounds of shifting metal and cicadas sharp against their ears. That leather jacket of unintentional teases crumpled off Eiji’s back as he was lowered onto the polyester, once again a victim to force and gravity.

Ash slid the door back shut with a jutting heel, still mouthing at his ruffled groupie while doing so. A ripple of recognition thumped against his chest as tongue’s slipped in greeting - they’d shared bubblegum kisses before.

Only now, as Ash voiced his satisfaction with gentle sounds, things became incredibly more tasteful. He was seeing his world quake beneath his calloused touch.

Eiji himself was seeing stars. Spotlights.

Said touch slipped beneath that black top.

“Ash,” he breathed, sharp and imprinting. He lolled his head around the seat, bumping the twine-tied wildflowers the pair had picked just hours earlier. How funny it was, Ash thought at the sight, for this to be happening here.

Deflowering; there was a poem in there somewhere.

But Ash could no longer think of Walt Whitman as his name was whined once more, an audible response to where his finger's roamed. The singer skimmed across skin with the same delicacy used to strum chords, inciting gasping notes from Eiji’s lips. Interludes.

For support, Eiji’s hands traveled away from Ash’s biceps and onto his hovering face. He tucked and mussed those golden bangs around, memorizing the soft feeling for all those lonely nights to come. He always loved Ash’s hair - always thought it was so unbelievably bohemian.

And if Ash could look at him like this forever, with his legs straddling hips and fingers strumming skin, Eiji would never need another hand-rolled spliff. He found his freedom right here.

He found his America.

But there was another country outside this rocking van, and in said country there was a crowd who waited with beer in their fists. Knowing this, and fighting against every possible instinct to seek fulfillment, Eiji placed his hands on top of Ash’s own to stop them.

Pale finger’s paused against the hem of those corduroy pants. Ash lifted his gaze to the dilated boy below, trembling in an unresolved passion.

“How long is intermission?” Eiji hoarsley smiled, chest heaving with a persistent pant. Ash caught onto the alluded hint with a breathy chuckle of his own.

Later.

And before Ash grasped his guitar once more, and before Eiji looped his camera back over his neck, the two slowed their heartbeats with patient backseat kisses. They basked in the mutual affection pouring in from their open throats, reassuring each other that this was more than just groupie love - this was lover’s rock.

The singer returned to the stage with a daisy in his hair.

Chapter Text

“Did you two fuck in my van?”

Ash nearly died right there. “What?”

Shorter chuckled at his friend’s expression, a gentle rhythm of breath beneath the hum of the van. He eyed a slumped Eiji through the rearview mirror - shades discarded due to the late night drive - and crudely reiterated.

“Did you pop his cherry in my fuckin’ van, Ash.”

They were currently speeding through the Louisiana boonies, tangoing at a time between early morning and late night. Shorter had received a tip that there was a well-known venue looking for an opening band, and in order to make it to Dallas by tomorrow, he loaded up on gas station coffee, queued up his Bowie tapes, and drove the van through the winding south.

Ash, battling expected restlessness, could not sleep like his softly snoring bandmates. He’d been watching Eiji instead, wondering how on earth this peaceful boy managed to writhe beneath his touch. Wondering how, out of all people, Eiji Okumura chose him.

He had looked so lovely when he whispered goodnight.

And so that’s where they were now - the band sleeping, the singer pining, and the drummer asking invasive, but justifiable, questions between the rows of silence.

Ash blinked his rigidness away. “No,” he managed, attempting to keep his voice as steady as possible.

But to no avail. “Not even a quickie?”

“Fuck off.”

Shorter yawned in rebuttal, nestling further into his seat with a flex on the wheel. “It’s a fair fuckin’ question,” he sighed. “You two looked pretty chipper after intermission.”

Ash subconsciously ran another hand through his mussed hair, a little sheepish at the fact that he forgot to brush it. The ghost of Eiji’s fingers followed suit, gentle and desperate, tumbling down another protective wall in their wake.

“Don’t tell the others.”

Shorter barked out a laugh. “Alright-y, Sammy Johns. Good for you.”

“I’m serious,” Ash snapped. Eiji stirred by his side at the sharp tone, encouraging him to drop back into a hushed whisper. “It’s not what you think.”

Shorter raised an inquisitive brow. “And what am I thinkin’?”

“That we fucked in your goddamn van.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“But you would have.”

Ash’s hands crumpled into fists - the skin still scarred from pillaging around Eiji’s belt loop. He remembered how the corduroy fabric moved beneath his fingertips, soft and bunched and annoyingly worn, and he remembered the look on Eiji’s flushed face when he stopped.

Those dilated eyes had been pleading. Ash figured he must have looked the same.

“I wanted to.”

Shorter nodded, satisfied, and turned the van down another country road. His voice, like the wheels beneath him, whirred softly. “That’s a first for you, Lynx.”

Ash turned towards Eiji at the statement, searching for an answer in that coiled silhouette. He was tucked against his chest and facing the foggy window, subsequently hiding that tan face from sight. His lungs expanded and deflated with every drawled breath, and Ash bit back the desire to trace those jutting shoulder-blades with his lips. This desire was new.

All of this was so, so new.

And it scared him. “He needs to go back to Japan.” Nothing ever scared him. “He doesn’t belong here.”

Shorter was silent for a moment, flickering across the windshield as he watched those headlights flare. “What’s the one requirement for this band, Lynx?” he finally murmured.

Ash didn’t look up from those beloved shifting shoulders. “He’s not running away like we are, Shorter. He’s not lost.”

“But he will be - if he isn’t with you.”

The singer didn’t respond, because somewhere deep down he knew it was true. But Ash also knew that if this country was capable of sending young boys off to war - parading their death’s around in telegrams opened by helpless baby brothers - then it was capable of ruining Eiji. It was capable of disrupting that tethered peace like a bad dream to sleep.

And as if he could sense that justified turmoil, Shorter drew in a contemplative breath. He always tried to be that teasing asshole of good companionship, but sometimes he needed to let maturity get the better of him.

“You’ve been lost your entire life, Ash. Let yourself be found for once.”

Ash looked up.

But before he could digest or disprove that statement, Alex’s rippling snore disrupted the heavy atmosphere. The interruption melted sorrows back down into wordless thoughts, and head’s swiveled back to tinted windows.

The sound reminded Shorter of that earlier request. “Why can’t the others know?” he asked - attempting to cut the seriousness down with a smirk. “Apex predator?”

Ash shifted. “Frontmen aren’t supposed to swoon,” he mumbled.

“Ah-h,” Shorter nodded. “But the gang’s just a bunch of doped up idiots, y’know.”

A smile prodded through the moonlight. “So are you.”

And beneath the gentle laughter of those two inseparable boys, who understood one another more than pride would ever let them admit, black lashes fluttered open out of sleep.

Eiji had listened to the entire exchange with muddled heartbeats and prying ears. He blushed at Shorter’s initial questions, smiled at Ash’s responses - ‘I wanted to’ - and felt incredibly dejected towards those woes. It pained him.

But he understood.

Curious, he gave a quick glance towards the rearview mirror, surprised to find that all-knowing Shorter gazing back at him through the reflection. With a suggestive wink, Eiji realized that the purple-haired driver had known of his eavesdropping since the beginning.

“So, Harold,” Shorter jeered, addressing Ash. “When did you want to make Eiji your Maude, anyway?”

Ash sighed, dramatic and heavy.

“Brooklyn.”

Eiji hid his smile.

****

“Goddamn buses,” Charlie muttered, cricking his stiff neck with a satisfied pop. “Goddamn cramped seats.”

Ibe hummed, flipping through a stack of work papers he’s been sifting through since Kentucky. Might as well get some work done. “Sorry about all this,” he sighed. “Again.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Charlie shrugged. “Trust me, I come across enough punks to know that they’re all impulsive little shits. Can’t control ‘em.”

Ibe bit back the response he’s used countless times before - Eiji was never an impulsive little punk. He was just a timid college student looking for intern hours and experience, and now he’s apologizing in polished english from payphones.

“I just wish a journalism pension covered airplane costs,” Charlie continued in that grumble of his. The buzz of the Greyhound bus warped the sound of his voice. “We could’ve been there in four hours as opposed to forty-five.”

“Either way, we’re quicker than the band,” Ibe muttered. “They only just left Mississippi.”

Charlie peered at the crumpled newspaper beneath Ibe’s attention. “How’d you gather that?”

“I got this paper in Southaven. Look,” he pointed to the music column, a little paragraph’s worth of information wedged between Watergate coverage and draft-dodger-trials.

“‘Out of town frontman,’” he read. “‘Makes impression on adoring Jackson crowd.’”

Charlie tilted in understanding. “You think that’s our guy?”

“I know it is,” Ibe folded the paper. “He’s described as, quote, a rugged Hollywood youngblood.”

The other man scoffed, “That’s Ash.”

Ibe passed the paper over for Charlie to inspect, watching as the other man contemplated a new thought with a tug of his brows. “You think he made that Hollywood impression on Eiji?” he asked. "That's why he split?"

Ibe paused as well. He hadn’t really let himself think about that - the notion that Eiji was just another ‘adoring’ audience member. But then again, Ash never let anyone touch his guitar, the band gawked. He never let his picture be taken.

So, “No,” Ibe answered. “I think Eiji made that impression on Ash.”

“Our plot thickens,” Charlie kidded. He passed the paper back over, stretched across his padded seat, and folded his arms behind his red hair - settling in for another nap. “Ah-h,” he sounded. “Where’s our next stop, again?”

Ibe turned towards the tinted window, watching the mix of green and grey speed by. He wondered if Eiji had seen this highway, too, or if he had been too busy indulging in impressions to notice.

Impulsive little punk.

“Dallas.”

****

“Eiji.”

Dark bangs swayed with perked attention, “Hm?

Ash stepped out of the sidestage greenroom, voice distant and deeply placid beneath the pre-show clatter. “Need your help,” he said, “With soundcheck.”

Shorter raised an amused brow, characteristic shades and spliffs perched behind his ear. “Didn’t know technician was on that long resume of yours, Okumura,” he tilted, emphasizing certain adjectives to change their meaning.

Eiji grew rosy in return as he shuffled off the couch, an embarrassed hue unnoticed by the rest of the band. The haze of their preshow tobacco seemed to mask any obvious suspicions, and thus the tourist slipped away without so much of a second glance.

Well, Shorter waved them off, but that was expected.

It wasn’t as if the pair wanted to make a habit out of these semi-public rendezvous, flushed and smitten by the time they returned, but things had only gotten worse since Mississippi. They spent the entire drive coiled in a silent need, sneaking affection through sultry smiles and discreet grazes of skin. How easily they could have kissed - beneath the streaming Texas sun. How easily they could ruin each other further with the folds of their lips and fingers.

But then someone upfront snorted at a joke sparingly told, and the privacy became snubbed by the fact that they were not alone - they were not in that Mississippi lot. And so to distract themselves from all those unsaid recollections, Eiji played a hand in cards and Ash sulked out his window.

They avoided eye-contact until Dallas.

Only now, “Are we calling it soundcheck?” did they indulge.

In response to the whispered tease, Ash clasped Eiji’s hand and breezed down the long backstage hall - a determined expression on his face and a stride in his steps.

Eiji laughed.

The venue was nicer than any of their previous shows, with a lush velvet curtain drawn to separate the stage and audience - a subtle sign of wealth. Designated instruments lay scattered on stands in preparation. Brown loafers and boots ruefully stepped over wires. It was dark.

And then the metal door clicked shut.

Eiji stumbled back with a surprised smile, nearly toppling over Shorter’s drumkit as he did so. One hand gripped a snare, the other cupped a slacking jaw, and Ash sweetly pursued him with vigor.

Because if the poets and painters were right, and absence truly did make the heart grow fonder, then it seemed that the two were making up for a lifetime apart.

Tongues rolled.

A lifetime lost.

“Eiji,” Ash murmured, lips like silk as they fumbled. Eiji gasped back.

“Ash.”

They were found.

It took a golden symbol crashing to the floor for them to inevitably stop, startled at the sharp sound echoing across stage. They laughed once the noise settled down, airy and amused at one another’s jumpiness.

“Sorry,” Ash breathed beneath a chuckle, skin still flushed in darkness. He eased back and helped Eiji to his feet, slightly coy with awareness - a drumkit wasn't the most romantic thing to be splayed against.

“It’s okay,” Eiji blushed back, straightening the hem of his disheveled jumper. He looked up once settled, dark eyes deep with admiration.“I’ve wanted you to do that since this morning.” Since Brooklyn.

God, they’ve wasted so many shows. “I know.”

It didn’t take long for them to reconnect - pale hands traveling up to cup Eiji’s face, Eiji’s own wrapping around Ash’s shirt. Chaste pecks replaced greetings - little well-mannered hello’s.

“You know,” Eiji’s swollen lips stretched, fondness flashing in his actions but teases tinting his words. “I never got that quarter.”

Ash kissed alongside his cheek. “I never got that photo.”

“That’s because you got into a fight.”

“And won.”

“And won,” Eiji crooned. Ash’s lips were unbearably soft against his jaw, and the lack of pressure practically melted his bones. He gripped that low-cut collar and whispered, voice strained lips trailed all over him. “So win me over, too.”

It was an invitation.

Ash smiled and traced little circles with his thumbs, brushing Eiji’s overgrown hair behind his ears while doing so. They’ve only known each other for a month, and already Ash would give this boy everything - body, mind, soul. He’d give this boy anything he asked for.

Anything except privacy, it seemed. “Not here.”

Eiji made a gentle noise of frustration, cutting through Ash’s composure as if it were butter. He hoped to have that sound playing in his mind forever, the singer decided. He wanted to hear more.

But there was a show to perform, and a band to hide from, and a yearning crowd to please. So, between the dim lighting of the heavily veiled stage, the pair settled for restlessness. They settled for simply holding each other, which in of itself was more than enough.

Even if they wanted more.

“Don’t do that again, by the way,” Eiji mumbled wetly, pulling his lips away from Ash’s own. He pressed his cheek against the other’s sternum and sighed, nulling his need. “Don’t dance how you did last night.”

Ash smirked, “But I’m a rockstar,” he shifted his weight between shoes, swaying, to emphasize a point. “How am I supposed to dance?”

Eiji laughed warmly, following the gentle side-by-side staggers. Ash’s heartbeat thumped against his ear like a makeshift metronome, adding rhythm to their delicate dance. A chin rested on dark hair. Adagio.

“You could dance like this.”

Ash hummed in agreement.

And the more he swayed, swaddled in the arms of a boy who carried the universe in his wake, the more Eiji thought about last night and all of those overheard fears. No matter what country they were in, the world would keep on spinning - seasons changed, summers cooled, and all songs faded into silence. Ash’s fears were justified.

The west coast was their magnum opus, it seemed.

But they didn’t need to do this now.

They could be childish and ignore it - plug their fingers in their ears and turn away from the inevitable. They could be boys and pretend life was just rock and roll and peachy sunsets. So Ash kissed Eiji’s hair, draping himself in a strength he’s spotted since youth, and muttered. “We can’t dance forever, Eiji,” the blonde boy breathed. “No matter how good you look while doing it.”

We can’t run forever either, Eiji thought, but he settled for a weak laugh. He closed his eyes and nuzzled further, wearily submissive to the inevitable. “I’m not going anywhere, anyway,” he sighed, “You’re still in debt.”

Ash’s chest bounced with a chuckle. “Alright,” he answered. “That’s alright.”

Because he never asked for forever, anyway.

Just for now.

****

It was, as Bones bounded, a bitchin’ show.

Not only was it their biggest venue yet, but the band signed their first autographs in the parking lot afterwards. Even Eiji wrote his kanji besides everyone’s scribbled signature, and to say that the gang was ecstatic would be a vast understatement.

So they decided to celebrate in the only way they knew how: “First rounds on me!”

Get stupidly drunk.

The six friends were nestled in a leather semi-circle booth, nursing designated drinks and encouraging bad behavior. Bones flicked folded paper-footballs between Kong’s handheld goalposts. Alex tied a cherry knot with his tongue and dodged the well-deserved punches for doing so. Shorter pocketed his playing cards. Eiji kept winning poker.

And Ash Lynx was happy. Terribly, insufferably happy.

“When can we afford a hotel?”

But he was also anything but subtle.

Eiji hid a blush behind his crumpled cards, sinking further against his seat in order to avoid that green stare. Cracked bar peanuts lay scattered in little piles across the table - a makeshift gambling pool - as the gang humored boredom.

Shorter addressed the question without looking up from his hand. “Missin’ a bed, Lynx?”

Ash’s eyes flashed across tan skin. “M-hm.”

“Aces up,” Eiji muttered offhandedly. Kong groaned. Bones threw his deck down in frustration.

“Goddamnit, Okumura,” Alex scoffed insincerely. He collected everyone’s cards to reshuffle as the tourist snacked on yet another proteined win. “Want me to deal you in, Ash?” the bassist asked.

“What?”

“You want a hand?”

Ash smiled small - another innuendo caught between boyhood. His breath just barely ghosted Eiji’s cheek as he turned back forwards, unwrapping his arm from its resting position against the backboard. “Course I do.”

Eiji squirmed.

“Any-fuckin’-way,” the drummer continued, elaborating Ash’s initial question. “We could probably spring for a four-star in Santa Fe. The gig paid well.”

Cheers and slow claps rang out across the booth at the prospect - they had been anticipating a hotel since Ohio.

Some more so than others. “Two to a room?”

“Obviously,” Shorter scanned his new set of cards, toothpick tilted in his teeth as he flipped his shades down. “We’re makin’ money, but we’re not Rockefellers.”

“Figured.”

The singer’s attitude dripped with cool disinterest, one that was expected from a well-to-do frontman, and if it weren’t for the discreet hand running across his clothed knee, Eiji would’ve been convinced he was annoyed.

Pale fingers squeezed fondly before slinking away.

Ash Lynx was happy.

Pink, warm, and surprisingly sober, Eiji could do nothing but blink down at the table in distraction. The rum-and-coke the couple shared was barely touched between them, proving the fact that affection equated to drunkenness.

Bottled little stars lay dormant in the alcohol's promise, and since Eiji’s already tasted the sun, what’s one more cosmic vice?

He reached down, pressed the glass to his lips, and gulped.

Ash laughed.

“Gi’me a sip.”

The bar was nestled on a Dallas downtown strip, attractive lights and neon signs illuminating the many abundant buildings. Due to the lack of parking options, the group had to walk - stagger - their way back to the distant gravel lot after closing time.

Besides a perched Greyhound bus station, which was taking a quick pit-stop, nobody else was in celebrating the Texas nightlife.

So Eiji shamelessly stumbled in step with a tipsy Ash, tucked beneath the taller boy’s arm in support. The two were letting themselves trail behind the group, indulging in the close contact they could later blame on low-tolerance.

Eiji felt as if he had straddled the universe. “Sing for me,” he slurred.

Ash chuckled and ruffled his shoulder, “You’re a lousy drunk.”

Eiji’s voice broke on a giggle, pressed against the other’s flushed skin. “Please,” he mumbled. “I hate having to share you.”

Lightweight. “Share me?”

“On stage,” Eiji explained slowly. His nose brushed against Ash’s collar as he turned. “On stage everyone sees you. Hears you. But I want you to sing just for me.”

“Just for you?” Ash hummed, pausing against the sidewalk. Eiji nodded, flushed and warm against the other’s disposal. He muttered something in Japanese, inebriation clouding the opportunity to translate, but by tone alone it sounded like an endearment.

So with a sigh, the Brooklyn singer - embarrassingly more sober than he should be - tugged the other forwards and humored his request.

Eiji laughed in success, not at all minding the fact that Ash’s voice quietly cracked from overuse. He recognized the dreamy song from all those backseat pitterings - he had complimented the lyrics before - and the fact that Ash remembered caused his heart to burst.

He could have died right then and there.

Nearby, passengers to the sleek Greyhound buzzed around the bus-stop, glancing in the couple’s vague direction. They all assumed that the two were just a regular pair of drunks - a pair of boyish lovers.

“Is this the mother’s and father’s?” Eiji grinned.

They weren’t exactly wrong.

That pale neck craned back with an interrupting laugh - a melody in of itself. “It’s The Mama’s and Papa’s, Eiji,” Ash explained.

Brown loafers and boots crackled beneath the gravel, passing the crowd of passengers with carelessness. Ash continued to sing, hotly brushing his lips against Eiji’s ear to make him squirm.

But it seemed that the universe had one last joke to play. One final twist of dramatic irony in this rock and roll tragedy.

“Eiji?”

Small world.

Mid-laugh, and eyes blown wide, Eiji faced that familiar voice with a quick beat of recognition. The couple halted against the sidewalk, looking as obviously drunk and in love as they felt.

Ibe stared back.

Charlie’s suitcase lay limp in his hands.

Nearly twenty paces away, that familiar van sputtered in disruption, oblivious to the showdown happening just down the street. Ash’s fingers squeezed Eiji’s shoulder at the sound, silently pointing out the fact that the vehicle’s door was open - quick escape.

But Eiji just continued to blink in his former mentor’s direction, spilling all of his secrets in the transparent expression he sported. And maybe it was the rum-and-coke, or the general giddiness of the night, but he truly couldn’t help it.

He laughed.

Ibe’s eyes got impossibly wider as he connected all those obvious dots - flushed skin, loose clothes, droopy giggles and messy hair. He turned his accusatory attention towards Ash, who seemed to be sober enough to sense the seriousness of the situation.

“Shunichi,” he straightened in greeting. Eiji found that hilarious - for whatever reason - and Ash couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sound. He was still a kid, for God’s sake. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Eiji doubled over.

Ibe was still speechless, blinking at the laughing adolescent sight with a gape. Charlie scoffed out a chuckle himself before wiping it away with his hand.

When he finally did speak, it came out a gasp. “Eiji,” Ibe sputtered. “What are you…” he swallowed, “What are you doing?”

It was a vague question: what was he doing in Dallas, what was he doing drunk, and what was he doing with Ash’s arm around him. But Eiji answered them all with a shrug, taking it all into a literal context.

“Running away,” he grinned.

Ash took the hint, then took his hand.

They ran.

Chapter Text

They made it to Los Angeles in three days.

Three days of infrequent pitstops, all-night drives, and avoiding Greyhound stations. Three days of backseat pittering, loitering, and necking.

“Do you think Ibe followed us?” Eiji had asked one night with the rest of the band asleep. Swollen lips fumbled around a shared joint, and Ash’s whisper pirouetted through the surrounding smoke.

“Be cool, baby.”

Eiji blushed a new shade of crimson. Ash laughed so hard Alex stirred upfront.

And sometime between those three days, the singer had become incredibly thankful for the fact that he didn’t indulge in his vices very often, for it seemed he was capable of becoming an addict. His addiction wasn’t found in auburn bottles or rattling opioids like the ones in cabinets, but in lips that spoke a language he didn’t understand. In the hands that would constantly fold into the curve of his own, hidden from view from the rest of the band, satisfying a hit.

It scared him, sometimes. That dependency.

But then Eiji would squeeze his fingers playfully to beat of the buzzing Bowie song, and he was reminded of just how nice things could be if he let himself succumb to this.

So, to say the least, it was the easiest three days the two endured. And besides the overwhelming amount of traffic, things went by incredibly too fast - so fast that by time they pulled into a puddle riddled hotel lot, a bit nicer than a motel but not exactly a Bel Air, all they could focus on was the smell of sweet air and the stretching of stiff legs.

“Can we get room service, boss?” Bones asked with a creaking yawn. Ash continued packing his duffel and scoffed.

“None of us can fuckin’ afford it.”

“Breakfast in bed might be nice,” Eiji added, shooting a knowing look over his shoulder amidst the gang’s chaos. Ash caught it with a wink.

“Two to a room.”

There was only one window inside.

It was attached to a glass balcony door, perched upon the farside wall. The California sun crept against the pane pleasantly, trailing in a tinted tangerine hue that streaked across the wallpaper. Eiji practically beamed at the curtained sight, proceeding past the threshold with footsteps soft against the evergreen carpet.

Their room was furnished with two identical beds - pearly sheets fitted so tightly it looked less comfortable and more stiff - accompanied by wooden nightstands with lamps on either side. It was small for a bedroom, large for a standard hotel room, and more than enough for the lovesick pair.

Ash shut the door.

“Ah-h,” Eiji marveled, peeking past the sparkling view of Los Angeles behind said window. He made his way to the porch with eager intentions. “Look at the view!”

“Mm,” Ash noted, lingering his gaze over those two twin beds. As he wondered about the cuestas between the pair, he heard the door to the balcony open, and the sounds of gentle traffic and laughter inevitably pushed the concern aside.

Because what the couple did in the bed, whether it was simply sleep or something sweet, wasn’t important. What was important was the glint in Eiji’s eyes and the smile on his face, an expression so bright he practically soaked up the sunset with his lips.

Because as long as they were together, smiling and excited, cramped beds and open windows didn’t matter. It never mattered.

“This city reminds me of Brooklyn.”

This was enough.

Ash joined Eiji on the balcony with a scoff, resting his folded elbows across the metal railing to barely graze the other’s arm. He shot him an amused look, “How come?”

Eiji sighed wistfully. “Everyone just…” His words fell off the longer he stared, seemingly lost in translation and the view of pedestrians below, with their platform boots and second-hand leather coats. “Everyone just looks so free.”

A smile. “Is that what Brooklyn is to you?”

Perhaps it was the tenderness in his voice, or the humor bleeding through the question, but a rosy blush kissed Eiji’s skin all the same. “Yeah,” he responded, eyes still conveniently diverted. “That’s what you are to me too, actually.”

“Free?”

“M-hm.”

A cool breeze ruffled Ash’s feathered hair as he thought, and with it came the peppermint perfume that Eiji always seemed to carry. The blonde wondered, then, if this smell was Eiji’s shampoo or cologne or aftershave - something obtainable. Something Ash could dapple on his clothes and pillow long after a certain plane departed.

But a part of him knew that this candied scent was just Eiji Okumura. Nothing bottled or store bought could ever replace him or suffice, and there would come a time in which Ash will forget what this tinted breeze smelt like.

He pushed that aside for now. “What did you think of me when we first met?”

Eiji nudged Ash’s body with his own, scraping together an answer. There was a humored tip to his voice as he began to elaborate, only a little shy towards the entire admission. “I remember thinking, exactly, that I never knew smiles could be that free.” His words melted into a soft chuckle. “Or that eyes could be that green.”

Ash laughed back, sultry and natural. It was a sound that magnetically pulled the tourist closer, transfixed at how easily those chuckles crescendoed. The American dream was held on the lips of Ash Lynx, he realized.

So, “What about me?”

“What about you?”

Another nudge. “What did you think of me?”

Ash sighed lightly in memory, meeting the other’s eyes as if he could find the answer there. The world, as far as they were concerned, rested in stares like this.

“At first,” Ash began, entwining his fingers limply with tan ones, “I thought who is this wide-eyed kid, and why is he wearing a sweater to a show?” Eiji chuckled shyly and focused on their hands. “But then you quoted Salinger at me, and… I remember thinking, okay, I get it now. I get why people want to be good.”

Dark eyes lifted. “Good?”

A shrug, barely careless and obviously coy. “I wanted to be good for you, I guess. I figured you deserved that.”

It was Eiji’s turn to wishfully sigh, because no matter what that reassuring smile said, or how those green eyes glistened, he knew that Ash still held onto those concerns. That all those whispered fears and past assumptions remained carried inside that restless head.

A heavy burden he’s been carrying for too long.

So with a slight tilt of his head, moving only a bit closer but enough for it to matter, Eiji wordlessly put all those fears to rest. He grazed his affection across a prominent cheekbone, feeling the skin beneath his lips grow warm from the contact.

Ash’s burden grew lighter.

“You have strange ways of being good,” Eiji pecked in an attempt to lighten the mood, remembering all those payphones and bar-fights of times gone past. Ash leaned into the kiss instinctively, bowing his head in a relaxed example, murmuring his rebute.

“And you have strange ways of being chaste.”

Eiji’s lips grew into a grin, and his teeth nipped playfully at Ash’s cheek.

“I never wanted to be.”

Reputations precede them.

And what they realized then, as Ash turned to chase his kiss and indulge in that proclamation, was that their differences only drew them closer. Something so trivial as first impressions didn’t divide them like it should, but instead only proved the concept of opposites attracting.

They just wished they had more time to put all those differences aside.

Tinted with that bittersweet prospect, Eiji’s movements slowed into something sentimental, and Ash met his pace with an exhale and a reassuring hand. Everything the two endured had been so loud and rushed - fumbling behind parking lots and sneaking behind stages - that they practically lived the concept of rock and roll.

But slow songs were just as good. Better even, sometimes.

So when the sharp, wet sounds of lips parting interrupted their duet, a slick smirk grew in realization.

“We have a bed.”

Ash breathed in response, less of an invitation and more of a fact, “And a shower.”

Surprised, Eiji threw his head back and laughed in the best way a person could, with eyes scrunched shut and unapologetically crass. They didn’t have forever, they knew, but they had tonight.

And with Eiji laughing the way he was, and Ash still holding his hand, that was all they ever needed.

That was more than enough.

****

Ash, as Eiji drunkenly described several times now, could be considered cool.

He had the nonchalance, the looks, the bruised knuckles and crooked smile of a rockstar, all of which were heightened by his guitar and vocal skills. He knew, to a certain extent, that Eiji could be convinced of this coolness, or at least he could cater to it.

It was cool to lean against the frame of the bathroom door, inviting and suggestive in his posture. It was cool to ask, in that easy tone that alluded to knowing just how cliche the line was, to ask “Care to join me?”

But Ash just wasn’t as cool as he had betted on.

Because he leaned away from the door, swallowed down the question before he could ever ask it, and trembled in solitary as he opened those tiny shampoo bottles. He should’ve asked for things, he knew. He should’ve been smooth and confident and sly.

But life wasn’t a stage.

He couldn’t act his way through this like he did performing. He couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t fucking nervous towards the entire endevour, with Eiji enjoying a smoke on the balcony, smiling over his shoulder, oblivious to the fact that Ash had been sulking underneath the weak water pressure just moments earlier.

He just had to remember that it wasn’t important.

“Shower’s yours.”

Eiji made a quick sound and discarded his cigarette, planting it in the novelty porcelain ashtray. He picked himself off the porch and shot another grin in Ash’s direction.

“Use all the water?” he kidded in passing, peppermint and smoke breezing behind his steps.

“Maybe,” Ash muttered, focusing all his attention on the scratchy towel he used to dry his hair with. He sat on the edge of his designated bed as Eiji’s footsteps, a rhythm Ash would know blind, disappeared behind the bathroom door with a click and a hum.

His shoulders dropped with a sigh.

Because Ash knew that even if nothing ever happened, he’d be more than happy just to spend a private night together - a night alone with Eiji. But he also knew that this was their only chance. If it was going to happen, it had to happen tonight.

This Los Angeles room was all they had.

By the time the bathroom door opened once more, a vat of steam dispersing with the motion, Ash’s hair was dry and his own cigarette was stale besides Eiji’s own. He used the evening light to read, a dim purple of twilight seeping in through the balcony.

A complimentary newspaper lay sprawled against the singer’s leg, for he had so easily forgotten that the world kept spinning since the summer began. It had been a good distraction, if anything. Facts and figures were more reliable than pittering heartbeats.

“Ash?”

Green eyes didn’t lift from the cramped sports column - who knew the Yankees had it in this year? “Hm.”

“Did you pack extra clothes?”

There was a pause between them, a second of clarity, before all those assumptions associated with the sheepish question snapped those green eyes up.

“I’ve worn the same shirt for the past two days…” Eiji continued shyly, trying to justify the towel around his hips and nothing more. The room was cold, apparently. Was it cold? Ash felt everything but cold. “Do you have something?”

Ash blinked fruitfully and shrugged to appear casual, “Yeah.”

He shifted off the mattress and breezed towards his bag, taking a moment to fumble with the zippers and pockets. The warmth from the shower melted against the air-conditioned room, flustering Ash’s fingers as he maneuvered around the duffel. “Might be wrinkled, though,” he mumbled.

“I'm used to it,” Eiji chirped. “Thanks.”

And after a thorough rummage and a quick sniff test, Ash walked back over with a button-up that was loosely fitted, even on him. He focused his attention to the red fabric bunched around his palms instead of the image of Eiji wearing it.

“Oh, you wore this in Memphis,” was all Eiji said. He took the shirt thankfully before pausing, a halt in movement that encouraged green gaze to lift.

Those dark eyes were drawn in a curious expression towards the middle of the room, a knowing look dilating his pupils. Ash shifted slightly, hoping Eiji didn’t notice his surveying glances or the arrangement of furniture behind them.

He had noticed both, because of course he did, but only focused on one.

“Did you push the beds together?”

Ash didn’t say anything as Eiji drew his eyes back over to him, a mischievous expression lifting his lips.

“You pushed the beds together,” he accused, more happy towards the idea than he was teasing. Eiji could be considered naive about a lot of things, but he knew how to read both context clues and transparent expressions. “What do you plan on doing?”

“I don’t know,” Ash managed, which wasn’t exactly the cool answer he usually strived for. But it was hard to remain composed when all of those silent concerns boiled to a flustered surface, replacing slyness with honesty. “I don’t know what I'm doing, Eiji.”

Eiji tilted his dripping head, smile growing soft and brows sympathetically turning. “You know I’m just as clueless as you are, right?” he reminded. “Even more so, actually.”

Ash looked up. “You’ve never…”

“No,” Eiji laughed, letting an expected tease finally prod through the comfort. “It would be strange if I had, considering Ohio was my first kiss.”

“That’s right,” Ash recalled dumbly. He kept forgetting about this supposed inexperience, especially since Eiji had been so eager - fearless - in the back of venues and parking lots. He felt a coil of humility pool in his gut at the realization, for he really didn’t have a clue about anything, either. “I think I’m still figuring it all out.”

“Me too,” Eiji agreed thoughtfully. Whether it was just the temperature of his shower or the look in those big eyes, it didn’t matter, for Ash felt warmth graze his skin as Eiji continued. “But I think we just need to trust this.”

A hand met Ash’s own, and with it came an admission that applied to more than just sex. “It’s difficult, Eiji.”

Fingers latched. “I know it is,” he whispered back, maneuvering his body off the frame of the bathroom door to prioritize his words. “And I don’t know a lot of things, but I know that whatever happens, happens.”

Ash himself knew very little about life and love - two things he constantly found himself singing about - but the few things in which he did pride himself in knowing were trivial. Gospel.

Things like how Brooklyn was far from home, but it was free, and that’s what mattered. That tea stirred with honey always helped with scratchy throats, ice healed calluses faster than neosporin, and birds were nice to look at but impossible to catch. He knew that Shorter hid his care behind idiocracy, Alex lost himself with the girl’s he’d make gasp in stalls, Bones and Kong missed their mother’s, and Eiji had a home back in Japan.

But above all else, Ash knew that Cat Stevens sang of how the wind carried souls, so for once in his life he threw his caution towards it.

“Just let things happen, Ash.”

And he did.

A small sound of surprise hummed it’s way out of Eiji’s throat, reverberating between the mix of folded lips. The simple fact that a towel was the only thread between his decency became apparent as chests melted into parenthesis, the bareskin contact burning pleasantly like the very rum they shared.

As if he were drunk, Ash found himself dizzily lapping at the water droplets racing down Eiji’s collar. It seemed that even with the hotel’s floral bodywash still clinging to his skin, he remained wrapped in peppermint. This candied boy considered Ash good enough for him - deserving.

How wonderful was that?

Eiji graced the nearby wall in another example of force and motion, the plaster cool against his back and hands warm against his jaw. His words fumbled on a lazy mutter as Ash took his bottom lip between his teeth, attempting to dilute any remaining doubt with the action.

“I trust you.”

How wonderful this all was.

Mingling his breath with Eiji’s own, Ash took a moment of recollection - shocked at how easily those three words unraveled him like a thread to a loosely stitched hem. He inhaled sharply before letting himself go, voice so low it sounded like he did after a show.

“I trust you too.”

Eiji laughed, beautiful and soft like the very skin Ash kissed, before shifting their world’s forever with a whisper - reputations and inexperience be damned.

“Then fuck me.”

Fearless.

Fingers pressed, bodies rutted, and Ash gently groaned in an involuntary response towards the request. How easily the line teetered between pleasure and pain as Eiji’s nails scraped his shoulder blades - how easily the towel loosened under his grasp.

But before it fell, and before those scratches lay marked, a banging noise disrupted the chorus of their exhales - four distinct, boyish, familiar bangs.

Ash never really considered himself a patient person before, and most often than not he found himself quick to anger, but it seemed that those traits ran especially true tonight. Because the muffled sounds of interruption bled beneath the door, shooting a prick of frustration down Ash’s spine.

They were dead men - all of them.

But as another chuckle rocked Eiji’s shoulders, and he smoothed Ash’s back in understanding, that anger dissipated into a dull disappointment. “We have all night,” Eiji reminded breathlessly.

Ash lifted his head and glazed over the boy grinning up at him, a mix of annoyance and humor in his smile. “This is the last time they do this,” Ash promised slowly, prying away from Eiji’s loosening grip.

A tan hand patted his shoulder in flushed sympathy. “Comb your hair.”

“Put a shirt on.”

Eiji scoffed and picked said shirt off the floor, making his way back to the bathroom while doing so. “Don’t let them see the beds,” he hummed before clicking into privacy, a tint of humor in his warning.

Ash listened to the sounds of that persistent knocking for a few seconds more, allowing this brief recollection of what just happened and what his goddamn bandmates just interrupted to bring his blood to a boil.

They had all night, he reminded himself bitterly, unlocking said door and coming face to face with Alex. They had all night.

“What do you want?”

“Ah, that’s not a happy look,” the bassist unhelpfully noted. Bones took a careful step back at the sight.

“The fuck d’you want?” Ash repeated, voice a lot more broken than he had hoped for. Shorter shook his knowing head judgmentally as Alex continued, blissfully unaware.

“We’re gonna raid the ice machine and break open the mini-bar.” He raised a silver bucket in emphasis. “Tell Eiji to bring poker money.”

“He’s in the shower.”

“Well when he gets out tell him to bring his fuckin’ A-game,” Alex shrugged, turning on his heel. “Game starts in five.”

And as their presence dispersed just as quickly as it arrived, with the sounds of Bones and Kong racing down the carpeted hall echoing in suit, Ash took another breath of composition. He didn’t notice Shorter’s lingering until he made an effort to close the door, action stopped short by a jutting hand calloused by drumsticks.

Daggers were shot between the slats of space.

“Piss off, Shorter.”

“We’ve only been here for twenty minutes,” the other ragged, struggling to keep the door open as Ash made an effort to close it. “You two are worse than Alex.”

“You’re so goddamn annoying.”

“Did you push the beds together?”

The door shut with a definitive bang - Ash was surprisingly stronger than the latter - and the frontman grit his teeth to the muffled laughter on the other side. Asshole.

But before he receded down the hall to join his drunken friends, Shorter shot a final joke into the fading silence.

A condom was slid beneath the door.

****

Eiji had learned a lot in one month.

He had learned to love the voices of Cat Stevens, Scott McKenzie, and Ash Lynx. He had learned that poker was a game easily won, privacy was a fleeting little thing, and english words were difficult to read.

Eiji Okumura had also learned that there were certain words that left him blushing, a ripple of embarrassment striking his nerves and pigmenting his cheeks.

Because Ash had said it twice now - once in the haze of that Ohio bar and once in the cloudy backseat - but it still managed to leave Eiji flustered. And now, with the poker game finished and sobriety surprisingly unclouded, he felt the full effect of the word huff against the back of his neck.

“Thanks, baby.”

Flustered.

Eiji paused against the outside of their designated room, head turned and eyes wide as Ash simply stared back. The longer the two blinked in silence, straddling a new sort of tension, a charmed brow lifted into blonde bangs.

Because it was just a nickname - a simple word Ash picked up in the bustle of New York City that he used casually. It was something he barely batted an eye towards, something he muttered when Eiji offered to unlock the door. But now, in this context, he realized it was far more than just endearing.

Fingers crept beneath red blouses.

It was flirting.

So, “What?” he asked innocently, breath ghosting across Eiji’s ear and cold hands warm against his stomach.

The rosily tinted teen turned back to the door, swallowing his silence and fidgeting against Ash’s touch. The key was withdrawn from his denim pockets, and Eiji became embarrassingly aware of the tremor in his fingers as he turned it towards the lock.

Perhaps it was because he was pent-up, and that all night Ash had been sending him looks that could melt the hearts of both pastors and repenters alike. His racking nerves were easier to blame on this unmet need than it was restlessness.

The key eventually clattered to the ground as Eiji gasped, the skin of his nape hot beneath those familiar lips. Because while things like this could technically be blamed on attempted coolness and rockstar behavior, Ash Lynx was just tired of being afraid. Tired of running away from a boy whose kisses had an expiration date.

So he pecked the back of Eiji’s neck to hear him laugh, shoulders tensing and gut clenching with all those unraveling implications.

“Open the door.”

That laugh bloomed.

They didn’t turn the lights on.

Didn’t shut the balcony door, didn’t wait for the front one to close, didn’t stop touching until Eiji turned to sit. He eased upon the edge of their communal mattress, eyes still locked with Ash’s own, tugging the two backwards with entwined fingers and shucking shoes.

The bed creaked lightly. The taut sheets crinkled.

And two knees inched between shifting thighs.

“That was mean of you, Ash Lynx,” Eiji crooned as he reclined, alluding to the entire night’s worth of stolen glances and pressed kisses. He said this once in a Memphis bar, too. “You can be mean.”

Ash smiled in memory, unable to find the words to respond as his palms pressed on either side of that tilted head. The moonlight lit up the blankets beneath them, painting Eiji’s fawned hair in a punctuating hue. He resembled spilt ink upon a page - artistically intricate and darkly isolated.

Would he stain?

Eiji lay flush against the expanse of the bed, watching closely as Ash crawled across him fully. It was funny, then, how the singer always talked about towering over crowds and striving for control. But tonight, in this briskly air-conditioned hotel room, he found himself considering change.

“Wrap your arms around me.”

Eiji dutifully complied, a tug of wonder knitting between his brows as he did so. He bent his elbows across Ash’s neck, shifted to accommodate, and let himself be trailed upright - a horizontal hug made vertical.

The open window allowed for the hums of the city to slip inside their room, adding background noise to the sounds of fabric rustling. Eiji settled slowly until he was fully seated against the other’s lap, a rising heat stirring between denim and slacks. His arms remained crossed behind Ash’s neck as he relaxed.

“Is this alright?”

It was such an unnecessary question considering the conversations they’ve already had, but Ash nodded all the same.

“What do you…” he swallowed the sentence away, trying to find a hint of discomfort in the brilliant eyes holding him under. There was none - because of course there wasn’t - just glittery awe and silence. “What do you want?” Ash managed.

Eiji pondered, his own inexperience clouding an answer. He didn’t really know the linguistics of it all - the specific words to accompany actions - but the night was still fairly young. He had enough time to ease into things and learn.

Every instrument needed to be tuned first.

So instead of responding with the words he didn’t know, Eiji levered his hands off Ash’s shoulders, rolled his hips experimentally, and caught his breath on a sharp hitch.

Oh.

Ash gave a stuttered breath of his own, both surprised and relieved to be finally given the release they’ve only ever whispered about. He nodded, weakly, to the silent proposition.

Eiji leaned down for a kiss and did it again.

And again, and again.

As they rocked in a selfless rhythm - pittering, it seemed - composure began to unravel verbatim. Blouses were clumsily tugged, kisses became lazily placed, and every grind sparked a new, desperate hunger to entrap their hips. A tour’s worth of starvation took hold.

Ash willed his eyes to focus ahead of him, chest heaving as Eiji remained moving. Pretty little whimpers began to fuel those ragged sighs, striking the blonde penniless in terms of debt. He’d always owe this boy. He wanted to owe this boy.

Because for once in his life, Ash sat in the submissive audience, watching as his figurative star danced and sang across the stage that was his lap. He had seen Eiji move in the crowds of venues before, discarding his camera in order to sway, but it’s never been like this.

Dark hair bowed, and another snap rang Ash thoughtless.

God, how wonderfully he danced.

“Ash.”

Eiji’s fists were now coiled around the fabric below Ash’s sternum, leveraging his body off a shirt instead of shoulders. He stopped moving in prevention, panting so loudly that he sounded like he did in Dallas; running away from Ibe.

He sounded like he did in Brooklyn; asking the band to take him with them.

Take him.

“Ash?”

Ash was pulled back down into the present, watching as Eiji looked down on him with those incredibly wide doe eyes. Pale hands remained wrapped around the other’s hips, jutting bones resting just below his thumbs, and he circled the skin in response.

“Could I…” Eiji whispered before breaking on an inhale. Anticipation rang Ash deaf.

Still sporting bravery, but still unable to catch his breath, Eiji asked his question by trailing his hands down, stopping just above the sensitive heat between them.

“Yes,” Ash answered in a rush, far more desperate than he intended. A curious smile pricked Eiji’s lips as he ventured lower, eventually wrapping his hands into a grasp.

Ash exhaled quickly through his nose.

It seemed that Eiji had finally reached enlightenment. He wasn’t particularly knowledgeable of english in the first place, but whatever he lacked in understanding he made up for in body language. And by the way in which those pale hands slid across his thighs, Ash appeared to be recoiling into himself, attempting not to appear too greedy or too nervous.

But in this mix of muddled language and understanding, Eiji knew that above all else, words had the power to put concerns aside.

So while reaching for a strained zipper, he spoke. “I think about this all the time.” Ash continued to heave beneath him. “I think about you.”

And it was painfully true. The amount of times his imagination ran off with the images of Ash on stage, raspy and sheen with sweat, was plentiful, and more often than not he came with Ash’s name shushing between his teeth.

“I thought about you earlier.” Fingers slid. “In the shower.”

It should have been an embarrassing thing to admit to, something so mortifyingly intimate and borderline shameful, but the way in which Ash continued to palm for him proved the statement mutual.

But he wanted to hear it. “Do you think of me?”

Green eyes pooled into pine the longer he stared, throat dry and smothered in unclouded honesty. “Always.”

The clasp was pulled down.

They talked each other through it.

Eiji, struck with inexperience and overstimulation, reached the height of it all first. Ash was there to catch him, praising softly as a limp body tumbled into the crook of his shoulder. It didn’t take much for the singer to follow, and soon the two were laughing and gripping at the backs of shirts now soiled.

And of course they did it again, peeling off clothes and any remaining barriers as they melted back into the bed. The second time was slower and involved more than just hands - ruffled hair tickling the inside of open thighs and hot mouths arching spines.

But at some point, Eiji tugged that blonde head up, desperate and pleading in his own right. Considering the way in which his eyes lidded and his smile grew soft, it was obvious he wanted more. Needed more.

How wonderful it felt to be needed.

So when they did try, Ash nearly lost himself in concern. He watched those dark brows pinch between discomfort and pleasure, seeking out the linguistics of an unsaid language. But, as always, doubts were put to rest with the gutteral sound of a broken gasp.

They came together, shaking in the sweat lining their backs like mid-morning frost.

The afterglow beamed brighter than spotlights.

****

“Did it hurt?”

Ash opened his eyes to meet with Eiji’s own, blinking past the few inches of blanketed space between them. His hand lay limp for the other’s inspection, unfurled and open like the context of his body.

By now, the two lay in nothing but their damp skin, huddled close beneath the untucked sheets that smelt of detergent and saccharine sweat. They had discarded their soiled shirts, cleaned what they could with tapwatered towels, and nulled aphrodisiacs with patient breaths. Hair remained wild and palms remained open as they feigned sleep.

Ash had also flickered on a single bedside lamp, letting the yellowish light cast long shadows off their newly discovered frames. A makeshift sunset.

“Did what hurt?” he asked, voice no louder than a mumble in order to be heard. They were both on their sides, turned towards each other like petals to the sun. A single topsheet was drawn over them - a childish fort.

Eiji ran his finger across the budded calluses. “These.”

Ash nodded, recalling his scuffed-up youth of musical beginnings. Griffin had left his beloved guitar when his draft number had been drawn, requiring him to hop overseas and fight a war that their country exploited. Ash hadn’t given the instrument a second thought, but when that telegram was delivered and inevitably ripped apart, he became obsessed. Consumed, practically, by the strings connecting him to a brother lost.

It did hurt. Alot.

Eiji tsked faintly, bringing the four digits to his lips and pressing carefully. “So why didn’t you stop?” he mumbled, “If it hurt so much?”

Green eyes glimmered. “Because I didn’t care,” Ash said. “It was worth it, in the end. ”

His tone alluded to the fact that they weren’t talking about guitars and calluses anymore, and by the way in which Eiji tightened his grip and closed his eyes, he seemed that he understood.

Feeling like an accidental burden, Ash brought up his free hand and brushed away the conversation. “I got a question,” he proposed.

“Hm?”

A finger skimmed the ridges of Eiji’s abdomen. “You an athlete?”

Involuntarily ticklish towards the touch, Eiji gave a small smile and dropped the hand he held. “For most of highschool,” he answered with a squirm.

A brow perked. “What did you do?”

Eiji hummed and thought, eyes lifting as if he could find the answer between their hooded blankets. He rolled on his back and sighed, “I don’t know the english, but…” Tan hands bunched into two fists, miming the unnamed sport. “You’d run with a…極点? A stick?”

“Pole?”

“Pole, yes!” Eiji laughed again, turning his head to face the other. “And you’d use it to run across these long tracks before jumping. Lots of upper-body strength.”

Ash hummed, eyeing the defined crooks of the other’s build. “I think I know what you’re talking about. Pole-vaulting, or something.”

Eiji nodded. “棒高跳び.”

“And you were good at it?” Ash assumed - by the state of Eiji’s muscles, it must have been a four-year endeavour. A sheepish shrug of confirmation encouraged another question. “So why’d you become a photographer?”

Eiji blew out a heavy breath and shrugged once more, figuring that if Ash had seen his body vulnerable, he deserved to see his soul, too.

Everything he could possibly remember, from the scientific name of the muscle he sprained to the hospital he was rushed to, it all tumbled out into space for the first time in months. However, the wound appeared to be hardly scabbed over, tearing Eiji open until he found himself unable to relent.

The looks his father gave him when he couldn’t compete. The conversations held on the sidelines with Ibe. Flyboy. All of those little details hurt so greatly that by the time Eiji was done, well-spent with the shadows of his past, his eyes were glossy and his cheeks were peppered with Ash’s lips.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he finished, peripherals clouded with blonde hair. “So I took the extra ticket.”

“And I’m glad you did,” Ash assured, for how deep empathy ran - how harshly it cut. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here.”

Eiji turned his head to face him fully, skewing dark bangs in twisted quiffs against the pillow. A sad smile pricked his lips as Ash attempted to clear his sullen face, brushing those loose strands back against his forehead. The action seemed far more intimate than anything they did tonight.

Perhaps that’s why he said it, smile wavering and voice meek. Perhaps that’s why, in this Los Angeles hotel room, he decided to shatter the glass ceiling and indulge in yet another truth.

“I love you, Ash Lynx.”

Green eyes swelled.

“Please don’t make me go back.”

Chapter Text

The closest Ash had ever got to flying was on top of Griffin’s shoulders.

With large hands wrapped around his ankles and the Cape Cod sun kissing his skin, Ash would often slump upon his brother’s head and watch the world stride by. On their way home from school, the store, baseball practices; he’d view the world six feet and three inches up.

Griffin - always the musician - would often hum or whistle a jukebox tune and encouraged Ash to sing along, a quiet conviction that eventually grew in confidence. “You got a great voice, kiddo,” he marveled once, and even though he couldn’t see his brother’s face, little Ash knew that his expression was warm and wide.

“Could I sing for your band, then?”

Griffin laughed in response, jostling Ash against him to ignite a childish huff. “Maybe when y’voice drops,” he kidded. “Don’t need a soprano any time soon.”

Ash kicked his feet teasingly.

And now, on rare nights, Ash would dream of these brotherly moments - unwrapping them like Christmas gifts tied together with childish bows. He’d never fly like that again, he knew. He’d never feel as invincible as he did giggling on his brother’s back.

Or, at least, that’s what he thought.

Because Eiji’s own back was a topography dedicated to his past life, a scapula for wings he traded in for legs. Ash had always been convinced the tourist was a bluebird incarnate, beautiful and free and untouchable, but he had underestimated just how far that comparison went.

The way he looked beneath him, felt around him, and how he whispered broken words that were as catchy as any other radio hit - a mantra of please and yes and Ash - proved him capable of soaring.

And of course they loved each other. Of course Eiji’s pillow-talk plea had been a mutual endearment. But when Ash couldn’t find a will to say it back, the two became strung to a predestined reply.

Please don’t make me go back.

And as the morning light prodded through the window they never bothered to close, Ash considered Griffin and all the people he had previously loved. He thought of how every person he ever truly needed fell through his hands like rushing water, and it was only a matter of time before Eiji inevitably did the same.

Loving him was always the first step, it seemed.

Sparing sentiment, Ash looked down and watched his beloved boy sleep, lips pursed and cheek plump and breath drawling against him.

He lightly trailed a finger across the landscape of Eiji’s supple face, memorizing the grooves of warm skin beneath him for all those lonely nights to come: the dip of eyebrow bones and large eyelids, the perk of a button-nose that twitched when he was mad - bunny - and the softness of his cheeks that perceived him much younger than he was. Every little detail.

But by the time he got to those parted lips that proved the boy a saint, Eiji had stirred out of sleep with a soundless flutter. Despite this, Ash continued to trace the lips he so often seized with his own, amusing himself with the softness they sported.

Eiji watched for a moment, foggy with morning and obviously in love, before nipping at that tracing finger playfully.

“Good morning.”

Eiji released him with a hum. “Ohayo.”

“How y’feeling?” Ash asked quietly, shifting as Eiji stretched his weary joints. An unintelligible grumble was his reply. “Hm?”

“Tired,” Eiji reiterated wistfully, letting his answers lie in the heavy ache burdening his lower-body. He smiled - a glorious difference compared to last night. “I don’t want to get up.”

“You don’t have to.”

The little dove laughed, lips perked against the crook of sunlit collarbones. “But I do,” he murmured, “eventually. There’s a gig tonight.”

Ash hummed once again. He knew that Shorter would give him shit for Eiji’s tender state, and that it was possible for his other bandmates to raise their eyebrows to this as well, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

“You need a shower, by the way.”

Not when he had other things on his mind.

“Care to join me?”

****

Eiji had a freckle on his thigh.

It lay just below his jutting tendon, a muscle perfected by years of previous athleticism. Between the mix of dim lighting and misplaced priorities, Ash hadn’t really noticed the dot of pigmentation last night - the sunspot kissed amongst tan skin.

Only now, with the shower’s stream racing down the contours of Eiji’s body, he let himself memorize it’s placement. “You okay?”

Eiji nodded, bottom lip drawn between his teeth as he adjusted. The two had done far worse than simply showering together - Eiji’s shaky condition proved that - but as those dimples creased further and that dark hair clung, Ash decided that this was by far the most intimate thing he’s ever done.

Blushing, Eiji seemed to come to that same conclusion as well.

Blinking away his diffidence, Ash reached for a half-used bottle on the nearby rack, ignoring how those brown eyes continued to glitter around his body in observation. He briefly considered asking the front desk for the brand of this shampoo, but even he knew that it was a childish request. Naive.

But so was Eiji. “Let me do it.”

Ash glanced up in surprise, watching those dimples crease further at the prospect. Eiji grinned up at him, a little sheepish and a little self-aware at how strange the request seemed. “Please?” he breathed.

Strangely shy as well, Ash handed the cylinder bottle across the space between them in invitation. Eiji took it graciously, a pink tint lingering on his ears as he popped open the cap and lathered up his palm.

And in that confined porcelain shower that smelt of flowers and heat, the pair succumbed to another level of vulnerability. When those white spuds began dripping down his forehead, Eiji swiped at them with a giggle, encouraging Ash to smile as well. When those deft fingers danced across his scalp, Ash melted into a puddle of affection and peace - purring. A cat to his bird.

But then those fingers paused. “Can I ask you something?” Eiji murmured fondly, tone blending into the hush of water.

Gravity drew Ash’s attention back down, blonde lashes peeling open as Eiji’s own crinkled up. It seemed that as long as they were confined behind the plastic shower curtain, naked in every sense of the word, honesty prevailed. You couldn’t exactly ignore someone while your body was bare.

“Okay.”

Eiji instructed him to rinse with a vague motion, trying to deter his obvious curiosity. Ash obeyed with a lean as Eiji’s voice reverberated against the dripping tile walls.

“What’s your real name?”

An odd ache grappled Ash’s chest at the question - of course Eiji had seen through the stage name. Of course his concerns would become forever forgotten in the blinding lights upstage.

He couldn’t hide anymore, not when all of his secrets and shame were trickling off his body, swirling down the drain with the likeliness of soap. “Aslan.” Forever ruined. “Aslan Jade Callenreese.”

Eiji stood silent for a few moments, running those unfamiliar syllables around his drenched head. “That’s a pretty name,” he eventually decided. “It suits you.”

Ash smirked his ache away. “Sayin’ I’m pretty?”

“I’m saying,” Eiji smiled back, earnestly persistent. “you’re loved. Whoever chose your name must have really loved you.”

Subsequently, and though he seldom wished to do so, Ash pictured the ghost of his mother - the person who had supposedly loved him.

She had been a barefooted, long-haired girl fresh off the ditzy - why else would she have fallen for his father? - commune, and due to the genetics that her husband obviously lacked, she must have been truly beautiful.

But it seemed that her story ended just as Ash’s own began, and the longer he thought about her dancing in the Cape Cod fields, flowers and white dresses billowing around her ankles, he felt close to crying. It was a shockingly rare feeling, but he figured that because his body was stripped, by obligation, his mind must be as well.

And as he watched those green eyes pool, Eiji felt his own obligation grip his throat. “You’re loved, Ash,” he pressed. “Really.”

“Then why did she…” Ash swallowed away the question, a grim realization striking his skin like sunburns. The only thing his mother ever gave him, besides the color of her eyes and her quest for free love, was the expectation of abandonment. She did it best - you love and then you leave. Hereditary.

Another hand cupped his cheek and settled his pensive thoughts, bringing his attention away from those Cape Cod fields and back into this Los Angeles hotel room. “I love you,” Eiji whispered curtly. Forever stubborn. “I really do.”

That was the first step.

Ash attempted to turn away, an abrupt and physical end to the conversation, but that stern hand prevented him from doing so. He focused his attention on the wall instead, watching those droplets race down the tile like tears among a porcelain face.

Everything felt so heavy. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

“Then tell me to stay,” Eiji insisted, breathing in his desperation and exhaling it back out. “Tell me to stay by your side and I will.”

Ash could hardly hear his rambling over the sounds of the steaming shower, but he could practically taste the prick of agony flooding Eiji’s words. He closed his stinging eyes.

“Do you want me to stay, Aslan?”

Perhaps it was the water, or last night’s dream, or the seventeen years of having to be brave, but Ash felt his cheeks grow wet with grief. He couldn’t be selfish in this situation - he couldn’t ask Eiji to risk staying in a country that only promised to snuff his fiery spirit.

So as a tan thumb swiped at his tears, characteristically caring and curious, Ash felt compelled to lie for one last time.

“No.”

A sound, a mix of a huff and a whimper, rippled out of Eiji’s throat in surprise. The fracture in his heart resembled the fracture in his athletic injury, and he found himself shattered like the burden he always believed he was.

“You don’t mean that,” he faintly accused, but it was no use. You couldn’t promise someone happiness when they spent their entire life trying to convince themselves they didn’t deserve it.

Knowing this, Ash spared himself a glance at the trembling boy below him, green eyes glossy with regret at the sight. They stared for a couple moments more, communicating through blinks of tap-water tears, before deciding to speak through parted lips instead.

Because Ash did love him, and he did want him to stay, but no matter how many books he read or songs he wrote, he couldn’t rely on words to push that point across.

So his fingers fondled the scapula of Eiji’s back, and Eiji’s own threaded through his shower soaked hair, and suddenly they were touching and kissing and crying - trying to bury themselves beneath one another’s skin. Trying to convince each other of their unspoken worth.

Everything endured on this trip, from open roads to shady bars, came to a crashing halt between this Los Angeles tile. Caesura.

And, oh, how cruel it was for Eiji to sound like a dove when he cried.

They moved in silence.

Folding towels, drying hair, tip-toeing around the conversation they had muttered between their makeshift summer rain. Despite the sullen looks in their eyes, a persistent magnet kept the two together, bounding them so closely that by the time a knock pitted against their wooden door, they had to peel away from yet another embrace - the fourth one that morning, at least.

Ignoring the distant sounds of their rambunctious friends, Ash looked down as Eiji looked up, a reminder of the miniscule height difference that Ash always, quite greedily, adored - those doe eyes seemed so much bigger whenever they were fanned upwards.

His arms cradled Eiji’s waist as Eiji’s own pressed against his broken chest, and for a moment it was on the tip of his tongue - those three words that would forever change that tourist to a citizen, that groupie to a band member.

But Eiji cut him off with a whisper, fingers fiddling with the unclasped buttons beneath his palms. “What does jade mean?” he asked.

Because as much as he dreamt of becoming a permanent addition to the band, he knew that above all else, his stubbornness would dissipate at Ash’s will. And if Ash’s will required him to be pushed aside, then Eiji would leave this country with his tail between his legs and a part of his soul forever twined to that Brooklyn singer. He needed to accept that.

“Green,” Ash replied just as softly. Eiji smiled.

“It really does suit you.”

Another insistent knock pulled the pair farther apart, detangling fabric and limbs. Ash reached for the bag by his feet, calling out to whoever was pounding on the door to give us a goddamn minute. Eiji huffed at the profane sound of Ash’s voice - he’d miss it. He’d miss the way those syllables cut so sharply.

“Got everything?”

He’d miss the way it grew so soft when speaking to him.

With a turn, Eiji gave a final scope around the room to check, big brown eyes pausing on the mess of mattresses and sheets before him. He noted the dip of the two beds pushed together, strewn with stained covers that once housed something so lewdly transformative, and grew nostalgic.

He could still feel the pleasant burn of Ash rocking inside him. Could still feel his blonde hair tickle his cheek whenever he’d bend down to kiss him. Could still feel the scratchy fabric of the damp towel running across his stomach, movements so gentle Eiji could sense the care with every cleanse - next to godliness.

And now here he was, yearning for the ghosts of a night turned morning. He’d always been a groupie, hadn’t he?

“I think so.”

He did his part.

****

Another glass clinked down onto the sticky mahogany, ringing out against the empty bar like weighted lightning.

Charlie whistled impressively. “I thought you said you didn’t drink, Shunichi...”

Ibe shot him a dreary look, obviously not too content with the situation at hand. “Are you sure this is the right place?” he muttered, glancing around at the lack of bodies surrounding them. An ugly purple sign of exhaustion striked his eyebags - he had just gotten off the phone with one angry, and very loud, mother.

“Mm,” Charlie nodded, pointing to the chalkboard hanging behind the bartender's head. “Look, see? ‘Banana Fish, performing at seven tonight,’” he read. “We’re just early, ‘s all.”

Another rueful glance. “They really did make a name for themselves, didn’t they?” Ibe sighed, briefly recalling the band’s miniscule reputation when they first started out. Ever since his suspicions had been proven, gaping at the two drunk idiots grinning in the Dallas heat, he found himself dwelling on the past more frequently. Had Eiji always been capable of deceit? Had he always had a thing for blondes? For boys?

He waved the bartender over with a limp hand.

“They do make good music,” Charlie agreed, taking a sip of his own drink before him. “But they always said they’d call it quits after LA, right? Tonight’s the last show?” Ibe nodded. “Well that means that by tomorrow, we’ll have the camera back.”

“And Eiji,” Ibe reminded.

“Right,” Charlie chuckled, “and Eiji.”

Their glasses clinked together in promise.

****

“So was the sex that bad?”

Green eyes glowered to the pair of prominent shades beside him, letting his answer lie in the dangerous way he stared.

Uncaring, Shorter stared right back.

Because, naturally, the drummer had recognized the heavy cloud looming over the blonde’s head since that morning. Thankfully, for Ash’s flustered benefit, he had the decency to wait until the rest of the band grew distant before inquiring.

Now, in the parking lot of their vacant venue, he pounced. “I’m being serious,” he pressed. “Did you say someone else’s name or something?”

Ash turned back around, focusing his hooded eyes on the softly lit horizon instead. In the distance, Eiji prodded around their beat up van, the rest of the gang at his loafered heels in a boundless and expected fashion. He was helping unload the heavy instruments with those athletic arms of his, smiling down at Bones as a joke was sparingly told between cases. He really did look like he belonged there.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” Ash decided quietly.

Shorter smirked, reliant on his comedic timing. “Well I could’ve told you that.”

Ash barely indulged in a smile, too distracted by his looming thoughts to properly laugh. A gust of the west coast wind rustled their unkempt hair - one long and bleached by the sun, the other sheared and fading from a lack of purple dye - and it smelt like seashacks and the city.

A mix of Cape Cod and Brooklyn.

Shorter adjusted himself against the building’s wall and quietly lit up, offering Ash his own wilting cigarette before easing into seriousness. “Y’know,” he began as Ash inhaled, “It’s taken me a few years, but I think I finally figured you out.”

Ash glanced over in question, exhaling a puff of second-hand smoke that danced with the cutting breeze. Shorter gave a sigh himself and dug his hands inside his leather pockets.

“When we first met,” he reminisced, spliff teetering between his teeth, “you’d never talk. You’d never laugh at my jokes, and I know you wanted to.” Ash smirked. “And you’d never talk about yourself. You were a fuckin’ mystery to us, man. A scrawny Massachusetts punk who played shit for poker.

“And I knew that we’d never come close to understanding you, but that was always okay with me. That’s just how we were; too caught up in our own shit to care.”

Eiji laughed in the distance, the staccatoed sound bouncing off the red brick walls - carried by the wind.

“But,” Shorter smiled, “you’re soft, Lynx.” He turned. “You’re not an animal at all.”

Ash stayed silent, the end of his cigarette crumbling to a stub. Shorter watched the ash’s fall, feeling an indescribable need to shake that boy senseless by his skinny shoulders - he deserved these things, goddamnit.

With another aggravated sigh, he focused his attention back to the chipper boy across the lot. Perhaps Shorter would never be able to convince Ash, the kid he’s watched grow with the likeness of their city, of his worth, but that doesn’t mean he’d ever stop trying.

So, “Neither is he.”

Ash glanced over.

Suddenly, and with impeccable timing, Alex barked across the cigarette littered asphalt in interuption. “Whenver you two get a fuckin’ chance,” he groaned, straining from the weight of the drumkit beneath him, “we could use some help!”

“Shut the fuck up ‘n give us a minute!” Shorter called back. Bones cooed at the insult before the back of Alex’s palm drew him quiet.

Against the sounds of their rough-housing, Shorter flicked his half-used drag onto the ground, discarding it like the conversation at hand. “Just stop making excuses for yourself, alright?” Ash did the same. “Y’hear me?”

And with a small nod, too torn between pride and exhaustion to come up with a tease, Ash fell into submissiveness. He expected it to feel like giving up - like quitting - but instead it felt as if the weight of the world had shifted from his shoulders and onto his chest. A different kind of ache.

“Seriously,” Shorter nudged as the two fell back into step, walking against the evening light and towards their buzzing friend’s. “How was it, anyway?”

For a moment, Ash watched that dark hair sway, growing chestnut beneath the sun - a natural spotlight, drawing him in. That alluring wellness.

“It was really good, Shorter.”

Ash could be good for him, too.

****

There was one band scheduled to go on before them, and Ash could hear their set through the dingy walls backstage.

The greenroom was fairly better than all their previous ones, hidden between a mix of local graffiti and handmade stickers peeling off the plaster. Despite this, the rest of the gang insisted on playing a round of pinball instead of tuning up, relying on the excuse of “It’s the last fuckin’ show, boss! Give us a break!”

But, quite honestly, that was just fine to the scowling frontman.

“Everything okay?”

Because Eiji didn’t play arcade games, either.

Squeezed beside the dented couch, the tourist perked his head towards the open door with a wide-eyed blink. His expression melted into a mix of contentment and scarcity the longer Ash stood in the threshold, suspended mid-pace, once again mimicking one of those spaghetti westerns.

“Not really.”

Ash took the bait and shut the door.

Eiji blinked a couple more times before turning back to the camera beneath him, pretending that’s where all his problems lied. “I think the shutter is broken,” he whispered, “I must have dropped it...”

The couch dipped in weight. Eiji couldn’t help but tense.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he continued quietly, “Ash-”

“Let me do it.”

For a moment, they didn’t say anything; staring at each other with eyes so desperate and glossy it ached. The band currently playing onstage sounded like they were swimming against the walls, vocals and beats and basses slurring through water. Everything felt heavy.

But, slowly, the camera was passed between grips.

They hadn’t spoken since that morning.

“All of the photos are gone,” Eiji whispered sadly - suddenly. He forced out a mirthless chuckle at the irony as Ash fiddled with the buttons. “I’m sorry.”

Ash didn’t look up, afraid of what he’d see. “What are you apologizing for?”

The truth was, Eiji didn’t really know. Perhaps it was because he felt torn between expectations - the successful groupie and the broken photographer - and now that he had fulfilled both, there was no real reason for him to stay. He had been hired to take photos and fuck around, yet he couldn’t even do those things right.

He was doubting why he had even come. “I’m sorry.”

Ash paused for a moment, finally flicking his eyes to find Eiji’s own. That shaggy dark hair lay just above his worried brow, and he looked so devastatingly different than he did in Brooklyn; no longer tethered to a freedom recently obtained, but recently cut loose from it. Hurt.

Stop making excuses for yourself.

“Do you remember,” Ash started with a drawled breath, turning back to the camera, “the first time you smoked? In the van?”

Confusion was added to the mix of emotions dancing in those big brown eyes, and Eiji skewed his eyebrows together in question. Ash continued with his tangent as he popped open the cartridge.

“You poked your head through the sunroof,” he recalled, smiling despite the scolding tone he sported. Eiji let an amused sound rumble out of his throat, watching those calloused fingers work through hooded eyes. “You outstretched your arms, and told me not to let you go.”

“I think I had too much,” Eiji proposed. Ash hummed, his heart mimicking the dull thumping across the floorboards.

The two smiled at one another in memory, expressions so bittersweet it reminded Ash of how he took his coffee. He wanted Eiji to grin again - he wanted to be blinded by those slightly crooked teeth and kissed by those slightly chapped lips.

He truly didn’t recognize the tone, or intent, of his words, but he figured that they’d help.

“I love you.”

Eiji’s blood painted his cheeks. Ash’s own ran cold.

“I love you,” he repeated quietly. “And I don’t want to let you go, either.”

Perhaps it was the admission, or the mutual feelings finally proven true, but the weight Eiji had been carrying seemed to dissipate. “Then don’t,” he cracked.

Ash placed the camera aside, discarding it to the ground like any bad thought. His hands retreated up to cup Eiji’s cheeks that were still painted pink - the entire world flushed beneath his palms.

“But I can’t ask you to stay,” he breathed sincerely, brushing those overgrown strands past Eiji’s ear in care. “I can’t.”

Eiji nodded weakly, coming to an understanding that pricked his skin like needle-points. He couldn’t have everything he wanted - a future and a life and a destiny strewn together - but if he left this country with nothing but Ash’s love as opposed to his presence, then that would be enough.

“I’ll miss you.”

It had to be.

Eiji brushed his lips across the dry padding of Ash’s palm, kissing his remorse onto the skin that smelt of lemon guitar-oil. “I’ll miss you too,” he muttered simply. Tattoos.

Ash leaned down decidedly, and Eiji tasted salt slipping down their cheeks, and the song, previously dull through the plastered walls, ended with an erupt roar of the crowd.

They kissed their goodbyes on that greenroom couch, but there wouldn't be applause in airports, too.

Chapter Text

The greenroom door had a lock.

Eiji buried his face into the crook of Ash’s neck, basking in the way his lean body seemed to ground him - to clip his wings. In response, Ash scraped his nails down the sides of tan shoulder blades, cutting jagged little lines onto the soft skin like cat scratches - claws.

They were not animals, he knew, but they sure did sound like some.

Teeth bit down on his pulse.

Acted like some, too.

Afterwards, when those claws retracted and those rhythms nulled, a warmth spread between them - too suggestive, too lewd, to keep for very long, but still treasured and staining. They seemed to simmer in the evidence like a canvas to paint, parchment to pens: artistic libido.

On the wall opposite the couch - where Ash remained straddled - a mirror with a lightbulb frame lay poised. Several times throughout this coupling, Ash caught sight of himself in its reflection, watching the blissed out boy he couldn’t believe he had become. Did he always make those faces, he wondered? Did his hair always lay like that, and did he always look so content in those positions?

At one point, he had even cupped Eiji’s jaw, turning his face so those brown eyes caught their own reflection.

“Look at yourself.”

Now, Ash assessed the panting aftermath through a new perspective, fighting off a dire need to apologize. He hadn’t meant for this to turn into what it did - to have their goodbye kisses melt into wandering touches and unclasped buttons - but he couldn’t domesticate his heart like he could his body. It thumped wildly and chased after Eiji’s touch, though he knew it would only make things harder.

The afterglow, something that once felt so blinding, now felt spoiled. “I’m sorry.”

Eiji listened to the rasp in the Ash’s voice, finding solace in the way it cracked. He ran his fingers across the fine blonde hairs to soothe, his own voice hot against Ash’s neck. “For what?”

For everything, Ash thought. For this. For sending you back. For loving you. For exposing you to this vibrant world only to tear it away - Griffin had done that, too. Griffin had given Ash a life worth living only to rip it away with his absence.

You’re leaving me?

Ash blinked away his thoughts as Eiji straightened, tan hands untwining to rest upon his shoulders. Big, beautiful eyes fluttered down in his direction, black lashes half-lidded across his cheek.

“You have that look in your eyes again,” he said. Oh, Eiji.

“What look?”

Eiji smiled, amused by what only he knew. He lifted his soft hands to cradle the singer’s face, palms warm and pressured. “Like that,” he insisted kindly. “Like you are keeping something from me.”

Ash was quiet.

Eiji wasn’t. “You worry me to death with that look, Ash Lynx,” he whispered, tracing his thumbs across the underside of those glittering green eyes. “Aslan Jade.”

Those eyes swelled to the touch. “I know I do.”

Eiji laughed, weakly and forced, but a laugh nonetheless. He leaned down and pressed a kiss onto Ash’s forehead, tasting the sex-induced-sweat soak his lips. The sounds of distant bands and youthful ruckus - the sounds of the summer - continued to flood through the plastered walls, but it all just felt like white noise to these lovers.

The world kept spinning, yes, but its axis tilted to this room.

“Do you think the others know about this?” Eiji wondered, pulling away from both Ash and the previous conversation. Ash gave a contemplative sigh in response, relieved to be able to tease again.

“I’m sure they will,” he suggested, reflecting on the bruising bite he had been given. Eiji acknowledged it as well.

“I’m sorry about that,” he sounded, slightly sheepish. He trailed his finger down the pink dents to soothe.

“It’s alright,” Ash hummed, “but unless you want to paint a more detailed picture…,” his hand traveled across the bare expanse of Eiji’s thigh, “...you should put your pants back on.”

Eiji laughed at this, scrunching up his nose in mock offense. He made an attempt to untwine and start piecing himself back together again, but with a small sound of surprise, he recalled the evidence still streaked across his stomach.

Ash recalled it, too. “Shame that camera’s broken,” he muttered, only half joking. The sight of Eiji, hair wild and covered in Ash…

Still, Eiji chastised. He made a move for the piece of clothing by his side, but paused before he could do so. His lips parted in thought, in sinful contemplation.

Ash could pinpoint the exact moment Eiji lost his sainthood.

“Don’t,” he gaped softly, but it was far too late. Eiji had placed his fingertips across his stomach, cleaning his soaked navel, before tucking them into his mouth. His pupils dilated as his taste-buds swooned, and a coil of possession ran down Ash’s spine.

It was vile. It was disgusting. It was the most lewd thing he has ever seen.

And it came from Eiji Okumura.

“You’re wonderful,” Ash found himself praising, completely awed by his boy’s boldness. Eiji drew his teeth between his lips, hiding his smile, and made a final attempt to clamber off Ash’s lap.

“You’re perverted,” he kidded as he did so, “if you think that was wonderful.”

Maybe I am, Ash wanted to tease, because God knows it was true. But instead, he sported a desperate pitch. “Eiji.” A desperate plea.

Zippers were zipped and buttons were buttoned, for Eiji refused to falter. He couldn’t give into that childish need to crawl back into Ash’s arms, to wrap himself in that comfort he would later fantasize about, because he needed to be strong.

If he was strong enough to love Ash Lynx, he had to be strong enough to let him go.

With a turn, Eiji caught those green eyes following his every move like a cat to a patch of sunlight. With his pants half zipped and his shirt half done, he crossed the room and leaned down to kiss Ash deeply, making sure the flavors of their love could still be tasted on his tongue.

Remember me like this, Eiji thought, holding him tender. Nothing less than this.

****

The year was 1973, and Ash had just turned fifteen.

His brother’s sunburst guitar lay pressed against his beating chest, its polished wood warm and familiar. The six strings dented his newly calloused fingers as they strained across the frets like spiders, a case unfurled by his feet.

A copper penny clunked into the velvet, and Ash gave a curt nod to the tipper. A dull ache in his fingertips seemed to echo the throbbing in his chest, and he pensively wondered if he’ll ever be able to play without them.

He had done this tedious routine countless times before: tucked against a street corner or park bench or shitty Brooklyn bar, playing the acoustic versions of all his sets in hopes that it would open people’s wallets. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t as if he could get a job and have time to practice guitar - this way he could at least do both. This way he could at least find a way to feed himself.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Max had taken good care of him for the months Griff was overseas, and he managed to keep both his dinner plates and bookshelves plentiful. Jess was kind to some degree, too.

But now that his brother would never be coming back, Ash couldn’t seem to stand all that kindness.

Couldn’t stand the fact that Micheal looked at him with the same admiration he once gave Griff.

So here he was, back on this barstool, singing covers of the radio hits he knew people would tip to. The louder he played, the less he could hear his stomach rumbling, and a part of him hoped he looked as hungry as he felt - a street kid sap-story always persuaded people to tip. Pity was pity, sure, but money was also money.

He ended the song on a metaphorical high-note, letting the waves of drunken applause wash over him like refreshing rain. The loudest cheers accumulated in the very back corner, way past the haze of smoke and bustling drinkers, and Ash couldn’t help but squint in the noisy direction.

A stocky bald boy in shades whooped enthusiastically. Another boy in faded denim clapped like thunder.

Ash furrowed his brows at the sight.

“What are you assholes doing here?” he rasped after the fact, his freshly locked case bouncing beneath his fist as he approached the table. His pockets lay stuffed with crumpled dollars and clanging coins too scarce for a meal, and the thought alone heightened his prickly attitude.

Shorter never cared for that, though. “Better question is what are you doin’ here?” he fired back, the rim of his glass - that he surely didn’t pay for - pressed against his smirk. “Y’got the voice of an angel.”

Ash bristled with embarrassment - his classmates weren’t supposed to know about this. No one was supposed to know about this. “Stop callin’ me that,” he mumbled. Alex scoffed in his place against the booth.

“What about boss, then?” he suggested. Green eyes flashed.

“Why would you-?”

“We got a proposition,” Shorter explained, patting the seat next to him. When Ash remained standing and characteristically scowling, a basket of oil-soaked fries were slid across the table in invitation.

Ash wasn’t sure what he was more mad about: the fact that the two boys treated him like a stray animal tempted by scraps, or the fact that it had worked.

He scarfed it all down as Shorter continued.

“I remembered seein’ a guitar in your room,” he explained, “way back when. Remember?”

Ash nodded, blonde hair swaying. Way back when, he had overheard Shorter bragging about his new Nico records, to which Ash, a desperate fan, invited him over for a chance to hear it. It had started out as a one-sided interaction, but the two ended up having more fun than not. He wasn’t a bad guy, Shorter.

Sensing this, “Well, Alex and I are forming a band,” Shorter revealed proudly, puffing out his chest like the big man he had yet to become.

Ash’s chewing slowed, and he turned to look at Alex with an inquisitive expression. Now that he mentioned it, Shorter had always padded his pencils and chopsticks against any nearby surface - something Ash would have found annoying if it weren’t for the catchy rhythms - and even Alex now wore bandages taped across his fingertips like medals, subtle signs of budding calluses still bleeding over.

Ash connected the dots with a swallow. “And you want me in it.”

“For guitar,” Alex confirmed, “but we had no idea that you could sing, too, man. Shit.”

“So what do you say,” Shorter grinned, “care to be our frontman?”

“You got the sound,” Alex piped.

“And the looks,” Shorter agreed.

“You could get any bird you want.”

“Or dude.”

“So what do you say, man? C’mon.”

Ash slunk against the back of the headboard, unsure as to why he was seriously contemplating this. He had felt so lost these past couple of weeks - looming around the Brooklyn streets, barely getting by, his head heavy and heart empty. Bands get more money for venues, he knew, but that wasn’t what this was about.

Free love.

And, shit, Ash did love these guys. Insufferable as they were.

So, “Fine.”

Shorter and Alex whooped, their joy bouncing off the walls like their echoing applause - the first of many.

“Followin’ your lead, boss.”

And they did.

They always listened to his commands, always followed his tempo, always melted their instruments to fit his voice to make the band the best it could be. It was easier to be told what to do than it was to come up with new ideas - new songs.

They’d follow Ash to hell and back if he said so - shit, they drove through the midwest, and that was close enough.

But this…

“You’re taking Eiji to the airport tomorrow.”

They couldn’t do this.

“What?” Alex spat, confusion cracking his voice in two. It cut across the backstage curtains like knives, sharp and wincing with intent. Bones cried out in protest. Kong’s eyes widened.

Shorter remained still. “Any particular reason?” he mumbled, eyes unclouded but stern behind his shades. He shot a glance to the bowed-head boy in the corner, looking for an answer in his shrunken posture.

The blonde shifted under the scrutiny. “No.”

Lousy liar. “None at all?”

Ash’s composure slipped, then, his sigh shaky and expression crumpling like a house on broken stilts. “Shorter,” he pleaded, sounding like a walking contradiction - prideful yet weak, steady yet on the verge of tears. “Drop it, okay?” He sounded fifteen again. “Eiji has to go back.”

The drummer remained insistent. “But do you want him to?”

Ash’s lips parted in surprise, obviously not prepared to answer that question. He looked like he wanted to say something, to reach out and grasp the words he hadn’t allowed himself to say, but he swallowed them back down with a nod.

Shorter scoffed, quiet against the sounds of the roaring crowd. “You sure look eager to leave him,” he accused, eyeing the crescent moon kissed onto the frontman’s neck.

And before Ash could come to his defense, and before the conversation could erupt into something even more passionate, a polite looking girl stepped into the backstage curtain, alerting them that it was their turn to perform.

Kong and Bones sighed sadly, breezing back down to the wings to watch. Alex cursed beneath his breath and made his way upstage, holding his bass with a white-knuckled grip.

And Shorter held Ash’s gaze, pushing his shades up the bridge of his nose in passing. “Stop acting out of fear, Ash,” he warned. “You’ll never be able to live with yourself if you let that boy go.”

Ash gritted his teeth, feeling like a scolded child. How many times must Shorter do this? How many times must he be told to love, only to go and make those same mistakes all over again?

How many times must they have this conversation?

But that didn’t matter, for Shorter’s expression grew characteristically light. “And even if you do want him to leave,” he pressed gently, “dedicate a song to him first, for Christ’s sake.”

Ash nodded weakly.

He could do that.

****

“This next one goes out to my baby.”

Eiji shot a smile to the stage.

A warmth proceeded to ignite in his chest as the song began, mimicking the warmth of the bodies dancing by his side. Chords echoed through the side-stage speakers, and that familiar voice caught a melody that fell in time to Eiji’s heartbeat.

He felt defenseless without the weight of his camera around his neck, but he couldn’t find the will to care.

Not when his friends were on stage, playing the songs he knew like a third language by now. Not when the love of his life pressed his lips onto the mic, looking like the man he so often dreamt about.

Not when a hand gripped his shoulder, stern and sudden.

Eiji couldn’t find the will to care at all.

He turned towards the familiar pressure, landing on the face of his old - older - mentor. Ibe yelled something he could not hear over the sounds of the crowd, but it all just sounded so worried. So concerned.

No anger or hurt or fear; Ibe was just concerned.

“すみません、伊部,” Eiji called back, and the grip on his shoulder softened in response.

The lights on stage painted long shadows off Ibe’s face, and for the first time since Brooklyn, Eiji realized just how out of place he was here. He did not belong in this crowd, with his hair a mess and clothes borrowed, and he should have never joined this tour in the first place.

He never should have never walked into that club named after a Lou Reed song. Wild Side.

My baby.

Dancing bodies bumped up against him. Fans screamed and cheered.

And tears streamed steadily down his cheeks. “カメラが壊れた,” Eiji wept, voice hushed beneath the ever present chaos. Ibe’s eyes grew sad, then, too, and Eiji could only hope he’d be able to say his goodbyes before those very same eyes called him home. “ごめんなさい,” he repeated, fighting off months of this remorse. “ごめんなさい.”

All songs must end.

“すべてが壊れています.”

****

Eiji once had a love for parking lots.

The cracked asphalt beneath his feet. The gravel that popped like campfires. The cigarette butts he would sometimes bum off the ground. No matter which city or state he was in, these lots remained the same in all their aesthetical glory.

He saw this country through parking lots.

And that’s where he’d say his goodbye to it, too.

It all happened like a slow-tempoed song, no real chorus or climax reached - quiet. Eiji had wandered backstage with his eyes red with tears and Ibe at his side, looking like a stray animal ready to be caged. The band fell into an unexpected silence towards the sight - no matter what they did or said, it seemed, Eiji was going home. A part of them always expected that.

Still, Ash looked gutted.

“End of the line,” Alex noted with a grunt, helping Charlie collect the stolen camera from the cluttered greenroom couch. Eiji didn’t know what the phrase meant, exactly, but he couldn’t help but nod along as Ash made a point of not looking at him. The mirror’s lights flickered like Memphis fireflies.

End of the line.

It was silent as Eiji prodded around the van, gathering what little things he had and leaving breadcrumbs behind - a bouquet of dried daisies, for instance, were left in the backseat, along with lighters and doodled napkins of crumpled tic-tac-toe games. Silent gifts.

“Don’t forget y’sweater, Eiji,” Kong smiled sadly, pointing to the rumple of fabric Bones had been using as a pillow. Eiji pocketed it with a smile himself, ignoring how the piece of cloth smelt like it had been stitched with smoke. Ibe must have noticed the recreational smell, too, for he shot the boys with a disappointed expression like it was an authoritative bullet. He excused himself to call for a taxi.

And then, in the humid Los Angeles air, beneath the orange hues of the humming street lamps that were littered with moths, final goodbyes were exchanged.

“Crazy fuckin’ tourist,” Alex chided, slapping a palm across the back of Eiji’s shoulder blade and pulling him into a hug. “Keep listenin’ to rock and roll, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eiji smiled. “I’ll be waiting to hear you on the radio.”

“Oh, just you wait,” Alex practically beamed, eyebrows wriggling and toothpick crooked, “Japan won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Eiji then turned towards an approaching Bones, who had lost his regular and cheery tone. “Keep the jacket,” the hype-man insisted, eyeing the browning leather draped across Eiji’s shoulders. He had bought the jacket in one of their many Goodwill pistops, but after he dropped a beer across Eiji’s own, he offered it forward in apology. “It suits you,” he pointed out.

“Thanks, Bones. Kong.” Eiji acknowledged the pair with open arms. “For everything. I’m sorry for not having any photos.”

“Nah, don’t sweat it.” Kong couldn’t help but sniff. “Bones ain’t that photogenic, anyway.”

“Asshole.”

“Sorry.”

And then Shorter approached, looking as clairvoyant and as smug as ever despite the circumstances. The rest of the band watched as their drummer wrapped Eiji in a tight embrace, whispering something inaudible for the photographer’s ears only. Eiji mumbled something back, and Shorter nodded in answer.

They shared a smile about this secret, untangling from a promise no one else knew what for.

And then those big brown eyes turned, and those jade ones swelled.

“Alright, you three,” Shorter sighed, addressing a tight jawed Alex and two teary eyed hype-men, “let’s start loadin’ the instruments.”

Eiji gave a thankful glance over his shoulder, to which Shorter caught with a wink and a saunter.

The night was quiet, then. Ash’s hair shone blue.

“What’s the,” he cleared his throat, scrambling for a steady tone, “what’s the name of your song? Again?”

Eiji smiled kindly, surprised by the gentleness of the question. “Hikoukigumo,” he said, voice carried by the warm west coast wind. “Vapor Trails.”

“That’s right,” Ash nodded, blinking rapidly to keep his emotion concealed behind his eyes. He swiped his too long hair behind his ear - a childish habit, reflecting his age. “Vapor Trails,” he repeated. “Right.”

Eiji continued to smile, though he felt it falter the longer he watched Ash struggle. This Brooklyn boy deserved to be the weak one for once - deserved to cry into Eiji’s arms, to feel his strength transfer from soul to soul. He needed to be coddled in safety, not in phony strength.

But then Ash fumbled around in his corduroy pockets, pulling out a shiny quarter just barely visible in his hand. “Here,” he offered. “I don’t owe you, anymore.”

And Eiji just blinked up at him, memories crashing past his eyes like those cold California waves. Memories that consisted of bickering by a payphone, of holding guitars in the early sunrise, of boldly crossing a greenroom couch and being interrupted by their friends. All of it - every cherished little thing.

They were all paid for.

So Eiji laughed, breaking his breath on a sob, and stepped into Ash’s arms. How could he say that he always wanted to owe this boy? That he always wanted to be on the receiving end of his debt, pretending to be inconvenienced by a payphone fare in order to remain in his life?

Burrowing further into the soft fabric of Ash’s blouse, Eiji soaked his chest with soggy grief. He tried to let it go - to let his cries be swallowed up by strength - but the trembling way in which Ash clung to him revealed their feelings mutual. He crooned.

“I’m sorry.”

Eiji laughed again, scrambling to get his composure back. “Stop apologizing,” he mumbled, lifting his head to peer through dripping lashes. “That’s for us Japanese to do.”

Ash smiled back, his own laugh seeping past his throat. He brought his hands up to cup Eiji’s cheeks, damp to the touch, and leaned down to kiss one last goodbye. Eiji complied almost carnally, lapping him up like one of those dripping hakuhou peaches: sweet in both taste and nostalgia.

“Y’know they got a word for boys like you,” Ash sighed into him, fingers sliding back to grasp his shaggy nape. Eiji’s lashes fluttered like a moth to a flame, tickling Ash’s cheek in response.

“Boys like me?” he hummed.

“Boys like you,” Ash murmured. “Boys with pretty eyes and smart mouths.”

Oh, Ash. “And what’s that?”

Ash tilted his head to answer, pursing his lips so as to catch Eiji’s own. If it weren’t for their fumbling proximity, Eiji was sure he wouldn’t have heard the words Ash whispered between these mingling breaths - was sure he would have swallowed them whole, with the way in which their tongues rolled.

But even if Ash hadn’t said it, Eiji knew what he was. He knew it ever since he first caught a glimpse of rock and roll.

Eiji Okumura had always been a Brooklyn baby.

****

“Y’know why we play music, Aslan?”

Aslan turned to face his brother, clinging to his arm like the soft six-year-old he was. He thought for a moment, screwing his face up in deep concentration, before shaking his little head curiously. His too-long hair mussed behind his ears with every sway.

Griff smiled down at him, nestling further into the porch. Their porch. “Free love,” he answered wistfully, eyeing the sunburst guitar held beneath his palms. He saved up for months at that port job for it, coming home everyday smelling like seasalt and the sun.

“What’s that?” Aslan wondered, sleep edging his voice and cheek plump with youth. Griff gave a hum.

“It’s a new phrase.” Forever the poet. “It can mean a lot of things, to a lot of different people, but in the end it means good things should be free.”

Aslan smiled, too. “Like music,” he realized.

“Like music,” Griff clarified. “So whatever you do, Aslan, do it for love.”

Ash watched the Los Angeles road stride by.

“Do it for freedom.”

He shook off the memory as Shorter’s eyes landed on him, both curious and concerned. He had offered his sunglasses up to a teary eyed Ash, saying, “Don’t let the guys see you like that.”

Ash hadn’t laughed back, but put them on nonetheless.

Upfront, his friends were silent, quieter than the radio on the lowest volume, and in the backseat, Eiji’s presence was nothing more than a ghost.

The dead of night never felt so lonely.

Ash nestled further against the window with an aching chest, watching the road speed by in moonlit strips. The sunglasses skewed his vision and they clinked against the humid glass, but that didn’t matter - all Ash could see was the color of Eiji’s eyes.

It was funny: Ash had always been afraid of the dark, but now he wished to lose himself in it.

But, still, Eiji didn’t belong to a country that killed young boys and cherished power over peace. He didn’t belong to the slimy streets of New York City, where violence jumped out of every corner and music was the only escape. It was a place that thrived off chaos, a place that offered Ash an abundance of jobs on street corners.

Eiji didn’t belong in America.

He belonged with Ash.

“Shorter,” he called, voice cracking in impulse. He was sick of being alone - sick of being so afraid. So tough.

The daisy’s lay perched by his side.

Do it for love.

“Turn around.”

****

Eiji’s thumb ran across the smooth texture of the quarter, letting the imprints of a president he didn’t know run across his skin. It shone brightly under the airport lights, silver and spherical like the distant moon itself. It was cool to the touch. Heavy to hold.

“I, um,” Ibe started, scratching the back of his neck in an awkward motion. “I am sorry, Eiji. You know that, right?”

Eiji looked up, smiling kindly. “I know,” he assured, speaking in their shared language just to prove it. Japanese felt odd against his mouth - consonants and vowels he hadn’t used in months rolling around his tongue. “It is not your fault, Ibe.” Rolling around his head. “I need to go back.”

Ibe nodded, still sporting that guilty gleam in his eye. He opened his mouth and snapped it back shut, mimicking those tabby colored koi fish he spent the summers feeding, before giving a final sigh. “That boy,” he started, but Eiji shook his head in interruption.

“I’m going to get a coffee,” he stood, unable to handle this talk so soon. His leather jacket slipped off his shoulder as he moved - a force of habit. “We have a long flight.”

Ibe watched him leave, giving yet another gentle nod of approval. “You know, I still have those recordings, Eiji,” he reminded. “Of the Brooklyn interview.”

Eiji paused, clutching his lip between his teeth and his quarter between his fingertips. He remembered how excited he had been when he first came to this country, walking off that plane with smiles and eyes wide. He had been so happy, then. So twined to a fresh-faced innocence.

Perhaps having something of the past wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“Thank you,” he smiled, and left before he could be asked to stay.

The airport felt as vast as America itself, with linoleum floors squeaking against his mussed shoes and polished walls made of tepid glass. Air travel was always so captivating to Eiji - a slice of modernity - and with planes being so accessible these days, he couldn’t help but fantasize about coming back one day.

He imagined buying a ticket for both a plane and a concert, squeezing himself into the front row of a crowd much larger than the ones he had previously been a part of. He pictured Ash on stage, wearing the years on his handsome face and commanding the universe with his body - he has always been the sun.

How many groupies would he have loved, by then? How many greenrooms would he have soiled with yet another crazed fan wrapped around his hips?

Eiji closed his eyes.

He couldn’t stop picturing it; another man, perhaps a woman, receiving the love that once belonged to Eiji. Would Ash remember him in this future fantasy, he wondered? Would he be able to see him in the crowd and jump back into his arms, or would he send him back to Japan like he did when he was eighteen?

Either way, Eiji missed him. He’ll miss him.

And suddenly he was approaching a payphone, giving in to the dull ache in his chest with wobbly knees and a pocketed quarter. He had no number to call, no promise to keep, but it didn’t matter.

“Eiji!”

He was the one being called home.

Crowds of people have always separated Ash and Eiji, from cheering fans between the stage to bundles of travelers around an airport. Miles of swarming bodies stood in their way, wheeling either beers or suitcases around their person. But despite the distance, and despite the obstacles, Eiji was always able to find his Ash - his sun - amidst it all.

He turned. Tonight was no different.

The former frontman stood on the other end of the airport’s hall, blonde hair beaming bright like lighthouses to a foggy sea. He had no bags by his side, just a guitar case in his fist and a pair of sunglasses tucked into his collar, but he looked ready. Convinced.

Eiji smiled at the sight, his future blooming right before his eyes. He took a step forward.

And then Ash started running, too.